The Devils of Santa Cecelia
by Jubalii
Summary: Oscar and Felipe Rivera aren't the most threatening bikers in Mexico. Their only true crimes are speeding and loitering, always managing to find loopholes and evade arrest. Of course, it's hard to be threatening when you still live with your shoe making older sister, her songwriter husband, and their adorable daughter. [Modern Biker AU]
1. The First Bike

**Author's Note:**  
This is a series of one shots based off the Biker AU; you can read more about on my tumblr [heyheyitsjuju]. The tag is DustDevils!AU.

This chapter is really a prologue to set the scene as well as introduce Officer Vasquez, who has no idea he's about to make a career chasing these boys all over town.

* * *

A man stepped out of the Santa Cecelia bus terminal, looking around at the sleepy scene spread out before him. He didn't seem to belong there; even without the impeccable charro suit or the expensive guitar case, the impression of city life seemed to cling to his combed hair, pouring from his clean-shaven jaw and distant expression. And yet this was his hometown; as he stood in the dusky twilight, a retroactive wave of homesickness filled him with a hard, desperate yearning. He'd missed home more than he realized. It only cemented the notion in his mind that had dragged him from the splendor of Mexico City's nightlife: _this is where I belong._

He hefted the guitar case over his shoulder, black leather catching the lights from the surprisingly modern terminal. His suitcase was bulging, hastily packed in his hurried departure from the life he'd been steadily carving out for himself. He paused only to pull out his phone, opening a mostly one-sided conversation between him and his (ex?) best friend. He had been left on read, but he couldn't find it in him to fret over the lack of response. He'd known the minute he flaked that he would be in for a serious cold-shoulder treatment.

 _He'll come around_ , he assured himself quietly. _He always comes around._

Taking a deep breath, he set off in the direction of home. The streets were almost empty, and those who saw him didn't seem to recognize him. Most everyone was inside, resting from a hard day's work and enjoying a meal with their family. With any luck, he'd be joining them soon.

In his hurry he dodged the main roads, taking the same alley shortcuts he'd been using all his life. The guitar and the suitcase were heavy, and he had to pause often to swap hands when the blood left his fingers. His back was aching from the long bus ride, and his legs burned with exertion. He'd gotten used to catching a cab, a plane, a bus anywhere he needed to go. It was partly his friend's fault— _stars_ didn't walk the streets like everyone else.

It took too long for his liking to reach his street. The lone streetlamp at the end of the intersection was barely enough to see by, and the sun was already sinking below the horizon. He made his way by the light from his neighbor's windows, breaking into a jog and ignoring the pull of his muscles as he zeroed in on the fenced-in house at the end of the road. _Home! I'm home! Oh, I can't wait to see everyone; I can't wait to hug…._

He slowed to a stop, staring at the house in confusion. The front light was gone, wires hanging in the open air. The windows were shuttered, and no light filtered through the cracks. There was nothing to suggest that anyone lived there; no car, no lights, not even a potted plant on the front stoop.

The suitcase fell to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust.

"W-what?" He managed to wheeze, eyes wide and panicked. He stumbled to the front door, knocking three times in quick succession. _They're asleep. That's all. Calm down, they just went to bed early._ He waited, far longer than anyone would need to. _She can't hear me. She's asleep._ He knocked again, louder this time. A shudder ran down his spine.

 _Don't expect me to be waiting for you, H_ _é_ _ctor Rivera_!

She'd warned him, hadn't she? He'd known she was furious when she wouldn't let him kiss her goodbye. She'd hung up on all his calls, never even looked at his texts, refused to answer his emails. He'd fallen back on letters, sending the family postcards, pictures folded up and tucked into notes filled from top to bottom with his love. He wondered now if they'd ever gotten them. They had gone from city to city so fast without any kind of forwarding; any letter returned-to-sender would have been thrown away. What if she'd never read any of them?

He sunk down to the stoop, head between his knees. They were gone. She was feisty and hotheaded; it was one of the things he loved about her, despite the problems it caused him. But he never expected her to act on her threat. Had she taken them all out of town? Did anyone know where she'd gone? What about his daughter? Didn't he have rights as a father? But if she'd told the judge that he'd abandoned his family… could they take her away from him forever?!

How did he even start to go about finding them?

* * *

Imelda Rivera was a sensible woman. She had to be, after all; an entrepreneur of a profitable business had to have a steady head on her shoulders. No one else managed Rivera Shoes' online presence. She was the face of the business, the proud woman in the signature purple suit who networked with clients, advocated for local businesses, and refused corporate offers while still managing to make a sale. At the end of the day it was up to her to make enough to keep the shop running, the bills paid, and her family fed.

If she'd had a _partner_ to help, maybe she could have relaxed more. But she couldn't even have a partner in life, it seemed; he'd skipped out on a wild goose chase for fame, leaving them with a mortgage and no money. Her anger towards _that man_ was only dwarfed by the loneliness his absence created. She wasn't alone, of course: she had Coco, and she'd sent last year for her twin brothers to help when the orders grew too numerous to handle alone. But they couldn't make her laugh the way he did, or hold her close in the middle of the night, or sing the special song he'd written for her and her alone.

Plus, with the way the boys acted it was more like taking care of three children instead of one. Even at sixteen, the twins were much more of a handful than her own toddler. Coco was only four, but already she seemed to have more common sense then the two of them combined; Imelda had lost count of the times she'd threatened to send them back home to Mamá, frustrated beyond belief at their teenage attitudes.

Even now, Coco was being a little angel; the nurse had given her a coloring book and a box of crayons, warning them all that the doctor might be a while. She was happily employed with them, stopping every so often to twirl on the doctor's metal stool with a shriek of infantile laughter. She was so well behaved compared to the pouting knuckleheads laid up in two identical hospital beds, one sporting a cast on his arm while the other had a fractured collarbone. Both were covered in all manner of cuts and bruises; their eyes were blackened, their faces swollen.

"I'd like to know how this happened." She crossed her arms, glaring at them. The doctors could tell them apart by their injuries; Imelda could tell with a single glance, though even she sometimes wondered just _how_ she knew that Oscar was Oscar and Felipe was Felipe. It was in the set of their mouths, she often decided, though even that wasn't always true. Oscar could be serious and deadpan just as often as Felipe could grin and snicker. She was their _hermana_ ; she just _knew_.

And right now, she knew that they were hiding something. Sheep, even stampeding ones, didn't cause what looked suspiciously like toned-down road rash. And they were very clearly lying through their teeth; Oscar's eyes kept drifting towards the ceiling as he spoke, while Felipe's went towards the window. They had never mastered the art of looking her in the eye when making up a story. Before either of them could repeat their excuses, a brisk knock interrupted her interrogation.

"Riveras?" The doctor entered, followed by a policeman. Imelda took one look at the cop before turning to the twins, her mouth pressed in a white line. They shrunk against the pillows, identical grimaces greeting the newcomers. "Well, I see we've got a party in here!" he joked, looking around at the twins, Imelda standing between them, and Coco on his rolling chair. He nodded at Imelda, motioning to the policeman behind him. "I'm Dr. Oropeza, and this is Officer Vasquez. You two," he addressed the twins, "are _very_ lucky. You could have broken your necks, the way you fell off that bike."

"Excuse me… did you say _bike_?" Imelda stiffened, the corners of her mouth falling more with each passing minute. "You mean bicycle, right?" Her voice was high and pleasant for the officer's benefit, though her eyes blazed with hellfire. Dr. Oropeza seemed uncomfortable, tugging at his tie.

"Well, no—I mean the motorbike." He glanced from her to the twins and back. "I'm sorry, are you their mother?"

"They wish." She crossed her arms, nails biting into her flesh through the sleeves of her suit coat. "I'm their sister. They're staying with me to go to school in town."

"I see." Officer Vasquez spoke for the first time, pulling a pen from his pocket and clicking it rapidly. "You're their legal guardian, then? I suppose I should tell you exactly what happened."

"Oh, _please_ do." She forced a tight smile onto her face, fingers beating a rapid tempo on her arm. Coco looked up from her coloring page, grinning toothily at the doctor as she brandished her masterwork _en cours._ He smiled back and leaned over to quietly compliment her work, keeping her busy while her mother was preoccupied.

"According to the farmer and eyewitness statements, these boys tried to jump a moving herd of sheep with a motorcycle." Oscar made a noise and they turned. He blushed, sinking into the pillow.

"We didn't _try_ , Officer. We jumped them just fine."

"It was the coming down that didn't go so well," Felipe mumbled, looking at his cast. Both the officer and Imelda glared at them fiercely; they fell silent once more, exchanging expressions of pure dread.

" _Ahem_." Officer Vasquez cleared his throat pointedly. "As I was saying… none of the sheep were harmed, and so the farmer has decided not to press charges. But this one," he pointed to Felipe, "was thrown from the back of the bike, which proceeded to roll over the other one. Luckily for them, the farmer was coming out to investigate and called emergency services. But they were riding with no helmets, no protective gear—"

"And no permission," Imelda finished. She worked her jaw, composing herself as much as possible. "Just _whose_ bike were you riding?" she asked, smile going eerie. "I'd like to know who to thank for these bills."

"That's what I'm here for," Officer Vasquez admitted. "This bike belongs, at the moment, to these two. What I want to know is _who_ sold it to you? I've checked and neither of you even have a minor permit. Do you know how dangerous it is to buy a bike off the street? Did you check the brakes? The motor? What if it had caught fire and burned you both alive? Did you even _think_ about what might happen?" he growled, sounding more like a protective parent than an officer of the law. With each question, the boys looked more and more ashamed until they were on the verge of tears, trying to hang onto their dignity.

"No, sir." Officer Vasquez pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing it before sighing.

"The two of you don't have any type of vehicle insurance either, do you?"

"N-no, sir."

"Just how much trouble are they in?" Imelda asked. "Are we talking about jail time?" The twins gulped, but she ignored them for the moment. Officer Vasquez met her eyes, a silent conversation passing between them. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, looking at the beds with a thoughtful frown.

"They… technically weren't on the road. The most I could get them for is breaking onto private property, and like I said, the farmer isn't going to press charges. But my suggestion to you is that you let me confiscate the bike. It might be stolen; I'll have to run the plates to be sure, but with something off the street, it's better safe than sorry."

"I agree wholeheartedly. You have my permission to take it."

"But—!" Felipe winced, clutching at his arm as he sat up.

"We paid for that! It's not stolen, it's ours!" Oscar protested.

"Not anymore, it's not!" Imelda snapped. "You're lucky I don't make you dismantle it yourselves and sell it for scrap! Officer, you are _more_ than welcometo take the bike," she repeated. Officer Vasquez nodded.

"Will do. And my suggestion for _you_ …." He approached the beds, turning his sternest gaze on them. "You boys stop this nonsense. You could have been killed, and what's worse: you worried your sister for no good reason. This kind of reckless path _will_ end with jail time. The last thing Santa Cecelia needs is a pair of no-good punks running around. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Officer," they replied sullenly. "We understand."

"If you obey your elders and do well in school, you'll grow up to be fine citizens. No more of this street bike stuff, okay? Promise me." He knelt, looking from one bed to the other. "If you buy a bike in the future—" Imelda snorted behind him, "—you wait to do it _legally_ , when you have a license."

"We promise." He nodded.

"I'm going to hold you to it." He stood, looking down his nose at them before turning to shake Imelda's hand. "I'll take care of the bike. You may have to bring these two to the station to sign statements, though."

"That's fine. _Gracias,_ Officer Vasquez." She smiled at him, grateful; she didn't know everything about the law, but she was sure he was pulling a few strings to give her brothers a break. "Thank you for everything." He chuckled.

"I have two grown boys of my own," he said, as if that explained everything. "It's a phase. They'll grow out of it." He winked at Coco, who giggled and waved as he left the room.

"Well, now that all that's settled, I don't suppose anyone would like to see the X-rays?" Dr. Oropeza suggested. The twins brightened, eyes going wide at the thought of seeing their own skeletons.

"Can we?!"

* * *

"You two are _not_ worth this much." Imelda fumed, hitching Coco higher on her hip as they walked through the dark streets. The twins lagged behind, more out of anger for the loss of their bike than any real pain. The medicine they'd been given at the hospital took off the edge, and they had stronger painkillers to help them sleep when they got home.

"But Imelda—"

"And don't think you aren't grounded. You'll be lucky to leave the house for school, I'm so mad at you!"

"I don't see that we did anything _wrong_." Imelda stopped, whirling on her heel to scowl at Oscar.

"You're so lucky I have a child in my arms, or I'd break your bone all the way through for saying something like that."

"Hey!"

"Do you know how embarrassing it is to have a _police officer_ tell me what you did wrong? I give you wages for working at the shop and this is what you do with them?! Well, consider your pay _cut_!"

"You can't do that!"

"I can so! I'm both your boss _and_ your sister. You—" She stopped short, seeing a shadow slumped against their front door. "Who is that?" The twins stopped behind her, peering around each shoulder to see what she was talking about. The shadow shifted, but from this angle it was impossible to see if they were noticed or not. Imelda clutched her sleeping daughter to her chest, innards freezing; her first instinct was to hand Coco off to one of the boys and order them to run for help, but they were injured. She didn't know whether to trust Felipe to handle her one-handed, or for Oscar to risk further damage by trying to hold her with a fracture. Her hesitation was torture, the knowledge in the back of her mind that if someone were to pull a gun on them, she was powerless to do more than throw her own body in the middle.

"Hey you!" Before she could move, the twins surrounded her. Oscar put his body, injuries and all, between her and the shadow; Felipe pressed against her with his uninjured side, offering more protection to Coco while keeping her flank covered. "Show yourself! What do you want!?"

"No," she whispered, sandwiching Coco between her and Felipe as she grabbed for the purse hanging at her hip. She dug for her keys, preparing to offer either an escape route into the house or a sharp weapon if need be. The shadow looked at before drawing to full height; the shape of it, barely illuminated by their closest neighbor's porch light, stirred something in the back of her mind.

"Step into the light!" Felipe demanded, sounding much older and braver than Imelda knew he was. She reached around to grab Oscar's forearm with her free hand, keys clutched between her fingers. If she had to turn tail and run, they'd be coming right along with her. The shadow obeyed, walking forward until the light showed it to be a man, tall and slender with large ears and larger eyes. He stared at them, mouth partly open, and then cleared his throat.

"I-Imelda?" he asked hoarsely, his eyes lingering on her face. She came unstuck slowly, a rusty machine that needed oiling. One breath, then another, emotions rolling through so quickly that she barely had time to register them. Shock, happiness, anger, confusion: a cocktail of feeling that centered on one point: _He came back._

"Who're you?" Felipe squinted. "Wait..."

" _H_ _é_ _ctor_!?" Oscar squeaked. "What're you doing here?" Héctor didn't answer, first walking, then jogging in their direction. The look on his face was one of intense relief, his arms rising as if to embrace them all at once. He slowed when he came close enough to see the cast on Felipe's arm, his puzzlement chased by a warm glow at the sight of Coco nestled in her mother's arms. The twins moved away, and he reached for his daughter; Imelda stepped back, eyes flashing.

"Don't you dare wake her up," she hissed, shoulders hunching protectively over her child. "If she knows you're here, she'll never go back to sleep." Héctor obediently stopped, unable to keep the hurt from his eyes. She looked away, trying to ignore the pang she felt at the sight. "Oscar, Felipe, unlock the door and go on inside."

"Imelda—"

"Shh." She glared at him, handing the keys off to Felipe. The twins scrambled to obey, unlocking the door and throwing it open before disappearing inside with their bag of combined medicine. She followed, pretending that she only kept the door open because kicking it shut would wake Coco. She heard him follow behind her, the soft thud of his guitar case hitting the sofa. A hand touched her shoulder and she stiffened, ready to smack him away; he stopped her long enough to look at Coco once more, bending his head to kiss her cheek. She stirred but didn't wake, crumpling the coloring page she held in her fist. He smiled, the expression fading when their eyes met. He stepped back, letting her by.

She passed through the kitchen, where Felipe was reading the instructions on the pill bottles while Oscar filled two glasses with water. They both looked at her, questions swimming in their eyes. She shook her head, one finger to her lips as she went to the back of the house. She opened Coco's bedroom door, laying her down on the bed before gently tugging the paper from her hands. She replaced it with her doll, smiling when the child hugged it close; she smoothed the hair over her forehead, kissing her temple before pulling the well-worn quilt over her tiny body.

"Goodnight, _mija_." She crept out of the room, gently closing the door behind her before walking back into the kitchen. "Just one of those," she advised Felipe as he began shaking out pain pills. "It's late and you still have medicine in your system."

"Okay." He replaced all but two of the pills, handing one to Oscar before downing it with a grimace. "Ugh," he grumbled, looking into the water glass.

"Finish it," she ordered, pointing to the water. "Then get to your rooms and go to bed; no video games."

"Aw, come _on_ —" Oscar wisely shut up as Imelda's nostrils flared. He gulped back his water, Felipe following suit before heading to their bedroom as quickly as possible. Felipe turned at the last second, looking at her before offering a tiny smile.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight." She turned from the door, not seeing how it didn't shut all the way, two brown eyes stacked on top of each other as they peered through the crack. "Héctor, you might as well get in here." He slunk through the archway, hands wringing. "Well?"

"Um… hi." He nodded to the bedrooms. "What happened to them?"

"That doesn't matter. _Why_ did you show your face around here? Did Ernesto kick you out of the band?" Her tone was scathing, some of her lingering anger from the twins directed at him along with a year's worth of pain.

"No, I left on my own." His lips twisted as he looked around the kitchen, avoiding her eyes. "Did you—did you get any of my letters?"

"Yes," she said slowly, arching a brow. "And your emails, and your text messages, and your voicemails."

"Then why didn't you answer?" She tore the pocketbook from her shoulder, letting it fall on the table before crossing her arms.

"Because you didn't deserve the time of day, that's why!" She let herself be louder, knowing that Coco would be dead to the world now that she was in her bed and behind closed doors. "You _left,_ Héctor!"

"I know—"

"I had to cover for all your stupid bills!"

"I—yeah—" He winced. "But I tried to send—"

"You think your stupid money orders helped?!" she snarled, the words she'd wanted to say to him for months clawing their way out of her chest. "They were barely enough to pay the mortgage, much less groceries and the electric bill and—" He looked more and more like a kicked puppy, watching her with those sad, pitiful eyes. She'd never accepted his calls, knowing that she'd break at the first sound of his voice. Now, the only way to keep him from talking was to talk over him, and she had more than enough to talk about. "We nearly went bankrupt! Do you know what I had to do?! I had to start a business just to keep up with the debt you left behind when you were out _seizing your moment_!" She quoted Ernesto's often spoken words with sarcastic air-quotes, trying to keep her hands from balling into fists.

"Y-You did?" He looked around, as if the business was going to hit him in the face. "What did you do?"

"I make shoes." She looked down at her own pair, sensible flats with the Rivera logo on their toes. He gaped at them.

"You made those?!" She looked up, ready to cut into him again, and then saw the look of reverent awe on his face. It was enough to make her pause, blushing.

"And so what if I did? It just proves that I don't need you to keep us alive. I'm doing well for myself and here you are, crawling back to me after your stupid plan didn't work—"

"What are you talking about?!" Now it was Héctor's turn to frown. "Our plan was working fine. We had more gigs then ever!"

"You came back to gloat, then!"

"No! I came back because I missed…" He faltered, looking away. "You. I missed you. And Coco."

"You should have thought of that before you left." He rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair.

"Imelda, I _mean_ it. I'm not built for that life; Ernesto is. He's the one that likes the stage. I'm just the songwriter." He sighed, crossing his arms before nodding. "Everything I need to write songs is here. I'm going to email Ernesto new songs," he said, as though they hadn't fought about it at all. "I'll work from home, the way I used to…" He hesitated, biting his lower lip. "That is, if you'll let me stay."

"Héctor—"

"If you don't me to, I—I'll think of something. I'll get a house in town, or—" He stopped himself, closing his eyes. "I'm just… you were right, and I was wrong. I should have never left Santa Cecelia. I should have never left you and Coco. I'm sorry." She stopped short of a scoff, eyes widening. His tone touched her; this wasn't one of his timid, schmoozing 'I know I'm wrong but I as long as I get my way' fake apologies. This was sincere.

"Well…" She cleared her throat, trying to talk around the lump forming there. "You look like you've been crying," she snapped, trying to change the subject. He smiled weakly.

"There wasn't anyone here when I came. I thought—I thought you'd left."

"What?" _That_ was surprising. "Why on earth would you think something like that?!"

"Because you told me you would," he croaked, wiping at his eyes quickly.

"We were at the hospital!" She flushed, partly from shame. Now that he mentioned it, she _did_ remember saying something like that to him when he was getting ready to leave. _He ought to know not to take anything I say seriously when I'm that mad_! But that was her fault for saying it in the first place; he'd looked to her for support in following his dream, and instead she'd given him cause to think she'd go.

"Hey, hey." He gave a watery chuckle. "Don't _you_ start crying on me, or I'll start up again."

"I'm not crying," she protested, even as his form went blurry. Her lips trembled and she looked away, blinking as fast as she could. "I'm just… I'm not crying." He said nothing, raising his arms, lowering them, raising them again as he tried to make up his mind. "No," she said, knowing what he wanted. "No, don't come here—don't—Héctor!"

His arms wrapped around her, drawing her against his chest. She was almost ashamed at how quickly she cracked, grabbing handfuls of his jacket as she clutched him to her. The need to feel him again overrode her fury and she pressed her ear to his chest, feeling the rapid pound of his heart beneath her cheek. He squeezed her as if he meant to push her into his skin, hands rising to her hair before going back to her spine, running along her jaw, trembling fingers trying to take all of her in at once.

"Don't leave again—"

" _Never_ —" She turned just enough to bury her face, voice muffled.

"Promise."

"I do. I promise." He tilted her face up to his, wiping the wet trails from her cheeks. "Imelda…."

"You swear on your life, Héctor Rivera." Her hands covered his, holding them against her cheeks. "On your _life_."

"I swear." He pressed his lips fleetingly to her forehead. "I'm home for good." She dragged him down to kiss him properly, smiling against his mouth.

* * *

In the hallway the door finally closed, the two boys on the other side making equally grossed-out expressions. They crept to their beds, not trusting Héctor to keep her occupied long enough to risk venturing outside the room. Oscar tried to settle on his back, Felipe twisting so that his broken arm was on top. The pills were starting to take effect, their yawning long and drawn out.

Felipe reached out with his uninjured hand, grasping at the empty air between their beds. Oscar met him, their knuckles brushing in a light fist bump. Neither of them could sleep until they'd had that last touch, something they'd done for as long as either of them could remember. Imelda pointed out once that they'd even done it as infants, touching briefly in the crib they shared.

"If he's back," Felipe said softly, keeping his voice down, "then she might not be so mad."

"Maybe we'll get out of our grounding early?" Oscar pointed out.

"Or she'll be so distracted that she'll forget." A pause. "I don't guess we can get our bike back, though."

"Not from the police." Oscar scowled at the ceiling. "That was a whole year's pay."

"I know. It was for me, too." He muffled a yawn. "Do you suppose we save up for licenses now?"

"That sounds about right. We did promise to get a bike legally, after all."

"It'll take some time… but I think we can do it."

"Me too…. Does your arm hurt? I think mine does, kinda."

"My collarbone hurts, too."

"Oh. Well. Hmm."

"Mm… I'm tired. Goodnight, Oscar."

"Night, Felipe."


	2. The Fight

"And then, it's ten." Coco pointed her fork at Héctor, who smiled indulgently. "And then, it's fifteen? And then it's twenty, and _then_ —"

"Coco!" Imelda sat down at the table, rubbing her temples with a muted groan. "Eat your food." She spared a glance at her daughter, rolling her eyes before snatching the napkin out of the six-year-old's collar. "And your napkin goes in your _lap_ , not your shirt."

"But Mamá!" Coco slumped until her cheek hit the wooden table, adopting a perfect imitation of her father's puppy-dog pout. Imelda ignored her just as easily as she did her husband, arching a brow before spreading her own napkin across her lap.

"Hey. Listen to your mamá, _mija_." Imelda smiled at Héctor, grateful for the support; it slipped from her face a moment later when she found him wiping his mouth on his bare forearm. He looked up from his plate and, catching her glare, grinned sheepishly. He grabbed for his unused napkin, hastily wiping his chin between shoveling forkfuls of rice down his throat. _Ay, Dios: what did I do to deserve this_ _ **zoo**_ _?!_ She took a deep breath, making sure Coco looked her direction before dabbing her lips neatlywith the napkin. At least _one_ person in this family could be a good role model.

"But Papá," Coco tried, knowing that Héctor was the more likely to cave in if she begged. "Don't you want to know how I count by fives? That's important; Teacher said so!" Héctor couldn't speak—at least he had enough manners not to talk with his mouth full—and she took advantage of the silence.

"Coco, remember how I told you that going to school is a child's job?" Coco frowned, scratching her fork against the side of her plate, but nodded. "Well, if your job is to go to school, then it's _work_. And what is our rule?" She sighed, braids trailing on the table as she slid down in her chair.

"No work at the dinner table," she recited.

"That's right. Now stop picking at your food and eat." The girl propped her chin in one hand, sending Imelda an obstinate, moody scowl that came straight from her tíos. Imelda smiled in return, scooping more rice onto Héctor's plate. He gave her a warm smile, both his cheeks packed like a hamster's. She pursed her lips and turned away, cutting her beef with a knife instead of hacking at it the way he did with his fork. _How on earth did I fall in love with a caveman?_

Her eyes trailed to the clock above the old wired telephone. 7:30. Seeing Coco's teenagerly expression had reminded her of her brothers. They were late—far later than usual. Héctor followed her eyes, chewing on the inside of his cheek before clearing his throat.

"The boys: they said they would be home later tonight?" He kept his question lighthearted, though he clearly picked up on her unease. She wiped her mouth, fighting the urge to tear the napkin with fidgety fingers.

"They didn't say anything, except that they weren't coming home right after school." Her brow furrowed, and she took a deep breath. It wasn't like them to shirk their after-school duties at the shop, but they were eighteen now. She remembered her own school days, wanting to stay and chat with her friends after the last bell rang. She always had to rush home and help Mamá get food on the table, and the frustration of being forced to work had stayed with her long after graduation. It wasn't fair to subject the twins to the same harsh ideals, especially on days when she knew the shop would be slow.

"They'll be together, wherever they are," Héctor noted as he leaned over to help Coco cut her _bistec_. Imelda said nothing, mouth tightening into a thin line. He'd clearly said it to assure her, though the thought was anything but assuring. Of course they were together, they were _always_ together. Seeing one without the other was like seeing a sign of the apocalypse.

She couldn't help but remember the old crones at the plaza. _Los gemelos… those who are born together are destined to die together_ , they'd tell Mamá. They always laughed afterwards, as if it were some big joke Imelda hadn't been privy to. Yet, even if they laughed the words had anchored themselves deep within her. She had been afraid for weeks that, if the twins were together by themselves, they would die. Finally her parents and found the source of her worries and laughed, saying that it was an old wives' tale. Something grandmothers said from time to time.

That didn't stop her from worrying. Especially now, as an adult. She was their legal guardian; after Papá died, Mamá had entrusted them to her care before moving to the retirement community. They were her responsibility, not only in the eyes of the law but also in the eyes of the family. She was their older sister, the wise sense of reason. If they were hurt—or worse—on her watch… how could she face Mamá, or anyone else? How could she face _herself_? She'd had a taste of that two years ago, when that stupid motorbike had nearly broken their necks. She didn't care for a second helping.

She looked from the clock to see Coco watching her with wide eyes. Children always picked up on more than adults realized. She didn't want her daughter to see how concerned she really was, and so took a gulp of water to buy herself some more time.

"I'm sure they'll be home any minute," she managed to agree. _I am a little overprotective of them, anyway. After all, they're practically adults, right?_ Well, not quite right; they were still teens. They'd probably just lost track of time and would be sliding through the door any time now, laughing and completely unaware of how much stress and strife they caused her in their absence.

"They might just be at—what on earth?" Héctor paused, the three of them raising their heads as the sharp sound of a revving motor cut through the otherwise peaceful night. It grew louder, until it seemed to be on their very street. "Damn motorists."

"Mamá, Papá said a bad word again," Coco pointed out helpfully. But Imelda wasn't paying attention, her arm slung over the back of the chair as she twisted to see through the arch into the front room.

"Can't they afford a muffler or something?" she complained, agreeing completely. "As if you have to drive a stupid truck to get where you need to go in this town. Take a _hike_."

"Not a truck: it sounds like one of the newer cars. Or a bike." Coco covered her ears as the sound grew louder. "Are they coming all the way down the alley!?" Héctor half-shouted, wincing. "It sounds like—oh." The motor cut off and they all turned, this time towards the back door just past the mudroom.

"Are they coming to our house?" Coco asked, stuffing a piece of beef into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. "Can I answer the door?"

"No, it's too dark," Héctor answered her kindly. "Let Papá do it."

"Aww!"

"Don't whine at the table, _mija_." He looked over his plate at Imelda, the same question she had swimming in his eyes. _Why the alley?_ She tensed, hand tightening around her knife. It was very likely that whoever it was wasn't planning to come to their house at all. But the alley faced the back of the houses on the street, and there was nothing but a high wall on the other side where the old mill had once stood. None of their neighbors would be driving in the alley itself, where nails and broken glass and who-knows-what-else could puncture a tire. There was more than enough room on the front street to parallel park; besides, no one's car sounded like _that_. So whoever was back there… they were probably bad news.

There was the muffled creak of an iron gate, and footsteps just beyond the kitchen. Coco cocked her ear.

"It's my tíos!" she said confidently. Imelda relaxed too; it _did_ sound like the boys. She couldn't explain exactly how, but she knew the identical sounds of their bouncy gait as well as she knew Coco from any of the kids at her school, or Héctor's flat feet from a customer's. Maybe it was from being around shoes all day that she knew their pattern, the way a person took that sole and made it entirely their own. Héctor chalked it up to some kind of weird, womanly voodoo.

"I don't—" Héctor began, less trusting when his family's safety was on the line. He stood as the back doorknob rattled, and then there was the audible jangling of keys. He walked into the mudroom, flipping on the single lightbulb and peering through the curtain before unbolting the door. "Good grief! What on earth happened to _you_!?"

"What?" Imelda stood up, her palm flat against Coco's head as the child shot up in her seat. "Is it the boys?" A thousand things ran through her mind—mugging, gangs, broken bones, broken _glasses_ , black eyes, and every other possible thing that could possibly befall them at school. But when Héctor backed against the washing machine to let them pass, they were none the worse for wear… or at least they had all their limbs. Her first good look at them left her speechless.

They'd grown taller than her by their seventeenth birthday and were close to clearing Héctor's seemingly enormous height. They needed a haircut; their hair curled like Mamá's at the ends, bangs plastered to their foreheads with a mixture of sweat and dust. The same dust stained the white sleeves of their school uniforms, streaking across the matching red sweater-vests and marring the pocket emblem. Their khakis were just as badly off, stained by strange fluids and caked with road dust at the lower hems. Their faces were dusty as well, their glasses dingy with a fine layer of grime.

"Who did this to you?!" _Bullies?! Were they bullied?_ She ran to embrace them, stopping only at the thought of dust on her clothing and on the dinner table. Coco stared openmouthed, eyes shining with the same adoration she always gave the boys. Oscar and Felipe looked at each other briefly, sharing a puzzled look before turning back to her.

"Did what, Imelda?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at you!" Héctor pulled the curtain back farther, looking up and down the alley with a frown while Imelda continued her scolding interrogation. "What happened?! Where have you been? Did you roll around in a sand pit or something!?"

"Oh." They looked down together, as if they'd just noticed their state.

"This is going to take forever to get out!" She plucked at Oscar's sleeve, mentally calculating the amount of bleach it would take to get the shirts looking pristine. She took pride in their uniforms—she had a right to, with the amount of money she sunk into sending them to the best private school in the area. She'd insisted they'd finish out _preparatoria_ , even though they'd both pointed out they'd just be working in her shoe shop no matter what.

" _Ay_ … sorry, 'Melda." Oscar shrugged. "I guess we didn't think about that, going down the road."

"Who were you with?" Héctor asked suspiciously, turning to them. He crossed his arms in a rare display of authority, trying to look as stern as possible. Imelda was usually stacked on her own against the two of them, and since he returned he'd avowed that keeping them in line was to be a team effort. After all, if she was their guardian, he was _also_ their guardian… in a way. "Are they waiting outside?"

"With?" Felipe wrinkled his nose. "We weren't _with_ anyone. Well, I was with Oscar—"

"And I was with Felipe—"

"If that counts," they finished. Héctor shook his head, thumbing to the alley.

"We heard that motor. _Someone_ had to drive you, and it hasn't started up yet. Are they going to sit in a dark alley all night?"

"Oh…." The confusion melted from their faces, replaced quickly by impish smirks. " _That_."

"No one's there," Oscar promised.

" _We_ drove."

"By ourselves."

"Don't yank my chain, _chamacos_." Héctor looked down his nose at them; or tried to, since they were both at his eye level. "Tell the truth."

"But Héctor—"

"We _are_ telling the truth." Their smirks turned to full, toothy grins. Oscar went for his left leg and Felipe his right, digging in the deep pockets of their school pants and pulling out two laminated cards. "Ta-da!"

"Wha—let me see that!" They turned to brandish them in Imelda's face, chests puffed out proudly. Two pictures stared back at her from two licenses, stating them legal to drive any personal vehicle. Oscar smiled where he should have been stone-faced, and Felipe looked startled by the flash, but they were valid permits. " _This_ is where you were?!"

"Now, we can go anywhere we want to," Oscar explained haughtily. "All we had to do was pass a _little_ written test—"

"Pay some money—"

"And we were set!"

"I know how licenses work!" she snapped. "But what exactly were you driving?" A pause, too long to be anything _good_. "Oscar… Felipe…." She felt her jaw tightening. "What have you done?" Héctor blanched at the deathly calm tone, Coco sinking down in her seat. Only the twins seemed unmoved—to the untrained eye, at least. Felipe shifted closer to his brother, the two of them forming their supposedly impenetrable wall against her fury.

"We drove… a motorbike." The confession hung in the air. "Our new one." Imelda was flabbergasted. For a long moment she could do nothing but stand and stare at them, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"A… _what_?" She felt rage's burning heat rush to her face, hands clenching into fists. Héctor waved a hand, shaking his head and mouthing over their shoulders. _Cálmese_ —

" _Una moto_ ," Oscar enunciated slowly. "One we bought this afternoon." The clock chimed the hour. The dam burst.

"How _could_ you?! After what happened last time?!" Imelda seemed to grow an extra three feet, trembling with emotion. "Are you stupid!? Are you crazy?!"

"Of course not!" Felipe protested, brow wrinkling. Imelda threw up her hands.

"Ay! And _what_ did that policeman tell you?! You've already forgotten? Maybe you both need the sense beaten back into you!" She dipped, going for her shoe.

"They just said not to buy one off the _street_." Oscar flinched as she tossed her flat, grabbing it by the heel and brandishing it for a backhanded swing. "And we didn't do that!"

"We bought it off a lot—"

"With the money we saved two years for—"

"We picked out what we wanted—"

"Test drove it and everything—"

"Signed for it—" With that, Felipe dug deeper into his pockets and pulled out a bundle of folded papers. "Here's the papers to prove it." Imelda snatched them from his hand, flipping the long receipts open and reading over them hurriedly. This was no lie, no prank gone too far. They'd really gone out after school, behind her back, and bought themselves a motorcycle.

"We wanted two, but we could only afford one," Oscar told Héctor as Imelda flipped through the receipts with a frightening speed. "Turns out they're more expensive than we thought."

" _That's_ why you waited so long to get a permit?" he scoffed, hands on his hips. "I thought you two were just going to hitchhike everywhere you went."

"No way!" The twins shared a triumphant smile.

"The licenses are a reward for being able to buy the bike!"

"We _did_ promise to do it legally, after all."

"It's ours, and it only took two years of hard work."

"Well." Imelda folded the papers back, mouth set in a thin line. "You'll be taking it back tomorrow." She managed to stay outwardly calm, though her innards were boiling. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this angry. _They're going to get themselves killed!_

"What?!"

"B-But it's _our_ s!" Felipe protested. "We signed the title and everything!"

"You did all this behind our backs!" She eyed Héctor, jerking her head. He crept up to stand beside her, looking more and more uncomfortable with the situation. Coco had completely forgotten her food, her mouth hanging open as she watched the fight unfold. She hadn't seen a _real_ family battle; it was nothing like the petty arguments that happened from time to time.

"So?" They both looked completely dumbfounded, and it only made her angrier.

"Look, you two—" Héctor rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes turning to the ceiling as he searched for something mature and guardian-like to say. The last thing he needed was Imelda turning on him for not putting his foot down with her.

"You kept secrets from your family!" Imelda interrupted. A small part of her quipped that _that_ was the real reason behind most of her anger, but she ignored it. _What's gotten into them?_ The brothers she knew would never hide themselves away from their family; was it something they learned at school? _She'd_ never been this way as a teenager.

"Only because you'd say no!"

" _Of course_ I'd say no!" Imelda hissed, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. "No, you're taking this thing back. Tomorrow."

"No." She gasped, hearing Héctor and Coco echo the sound. For a moment she was stunned into silence, amazed that they'd openly defy her. Oscar glanced at Felipe, the two of them squaring their shoulders and drawing themselves to full height. They fairly towered over her, using it to their advantage in a united front.

"Yes." She worked her jaw, feeling stress tightening the muscles in her neck. "You _are_."

"No, we're not."

"Yes, you are!"

"No, we're not!"

They fell into an old-fashioned sibling stare down, with Héctor and Coco looking on fretfully. Imelda had to work double to meet both their scowling glares, but between the three of them she was the stronger. The boys could feel the sweat beading on the back of their necks, aided by the crawling notion that she could probably whack them both in the same swing, her arm moving at the rate of a major league pitcher.

"I am nothaving that… that _Devil ride_ in my house!"

"It's not in your house," Oscar pointed out snidely. "It's behind it." It was one of the ultimate sibling power moves, and it hit right where he'd wanted it to. Imelda's cheeks flushed a dark, mottled red and she squeezed the shoe to within an inch of its life; only the Rivera stitching could have held against such a white-knuckled pressure.

"You'll end up dead!" It was getting hard to tell whether she meant the bike, or by her own hand.

"We drove it home without a problem, didn't we?" Felipe tilted his head, flashing his license at her. "We have these now, and besides—we've already driven in the dark. How hard can daytime be?"

"I—" Imelda stammered, knowing that she was losing her footing but not ready to give up the argument. "I _forbid_ it!" There, plain and simple. They couldn't bring their wild ideas home if she made it impossible for them. _I thought this was supposed to be a phase_ , _anyway_!

"Then…" They were growing desperate as well; a real Rivera fight never lasted this long. Besides, forbidding things was a Mamá move, not an Imelda one. They had no way of knowing how serious she was, but if she was anything like their mother their chances for the bike were sliding between their fingers, license or no license. "Then we'll move!" This was laughed down scornfully.

"With what money!" Imelda scoffed, shaking her head. "It seems to me like you blew yours." That was true.

"We'll—we'll wait tables at night!"

"We'll work in the fields—"

"In the mines—"

"At the bar!"

"Uh, can I input one teensy little thing?" Héctor smiled awkwardly, raising one long finger.

"No!" They all snapped.

"Ah, okay."

"Alright, enough of this." Imelda took a deep breath, schooling her face into her darkest expression. "No more arguments. You are going to go to your room, take off those dirty clothes, and go to bed. No supper, no talking, no _nothing_."

"But—"

"Ah!" She held up her hand, eyes narrowing further. " _No_ _nothing_. Tomorrow, we're going straight back to that lot, and you're going to return that bike."

"¡ _No es justo_!" Oscar stomped childishly. "It's ours, Imelda! You can't tell us what to do with it!"

"Not another word!" She pointed to the hallway. "Go."

"But—"

"Ah!"

"Imel—"

"Zzp!" She mimed zipping her lips. "No!" She added, pointing her shoe at Felipe when he opened his mouth. They looked to Héctor, who shrugged helplessly. They looked back to Imelda, who brandished the shoe at the hall, urging them on.

Their faces flushed, frustration and anger brewing behind their eyes in a fierce tempest. Imelda recognized the look with a start—it was like Papá. They were always as quiet as their father had been, but it seemed that they had his _temper_ as well as his temperament. She faltered, having never seen them this way before. She'd seen them exasperated and irritated, and even annoyed, but never outright _fuming_. That was her job!

"You're not our mom!" Felipe broke first, despite being the quieter of the two. "You're just our dumb sister! What do you know!?" He blinked back hot tears, mouth quivering.

"So?!" She shot back, offended. She knew she ought to keep her mouth shut, but the words poured out anyway. "As long as you live under my roof, you obey my rules!"

"Well—we _hate_ living here!" Oscar blurted. "At least Papá wasn't a dictator like _you_!" The room fell into a loud, painful silence. Imelda's chest heaved, throat tightening more than she'd like to admit. She swallowed the lump, pointing again in the direction of the bedrooms.

" _Go_." They hesitated; Oscar lookedcontrite, but slammed Héctor's chair under the table with a _crack_ as he stomped past. Felipe followed, hands in his pockets. He had the audacity to look wounded, as if _they_ were the ones in the right. The kitchen seemed empty and full at the same time, missing two people but containing the leftover force of their outburst. Héctor ran a hand through his hair, blowing his bangs with a low breath. He scratched his chin, looking from the bedrooms to his wife and back.

"'Melda?"

"Sit down and let's eat." Her voice was hollow and on the verge of tears, but her eyes were dry as she took her seat. She spread her napkin in her lap, ashamed to look at Coco. She was just trying to be a good mother, a good sister, and instead she just felt like the bad guy. _A dictator? Really?_

"Hey—" He reached for her hand and she pulled it away.

"Héctor. Eat." She attacked her cold _bistec_ , shoving piece after piece in her mouth faster than she could chew. If she just kept eating, maybe she wouldn't embarrass herself further with crying.

"Um… May I be excused?" Coco asked in a tiny voice, looking between her parents. She didn't understand everything, being too young to really remember the hospital visit. But she knew her mamá was sad, and her tíos were mad. Usually her papá would be cracking a joke or singing some silly song to make Mamá smile, but now he just stared at the fruit bowl and chewed his rice slowly. She didn't like the ugly feeling in the kitchen now.

"Yes, _mija_." Héctor nodded his permission. "You can go."

* * *

 _Ungrateful. Insensible. Idiotic._

Imelda stood at the sink, scrubbing at the white dress shirts. The soapy water had already turned a dingy off-beige with her efforts, and still she worked. The shirts had to be prewashed before anything set; while she thought about punishing them further and making them do the hard work, she wanted it done _right_. She hadn't heard a peep from their bedroom, though she had heard the shower running earlier and knew they'd obeyed her demands to clean themselves up.

 _I give them jobs, I pay money to send them to a good school, they're not homeless or starving—this is the thanks I get?_ She scrubbed harder, working her frustrations out on the poor shirts. _I can't believe they'd—_

"Hey… any harder and you're going to tear a hole." Two hands settled on her waist, squeezing gently before snaking around to her stomach, a warm chest flush with her back. She sighed, resisting the urge to splash him with the dirty water. It might make him go away, but then she'd have to clean the floor as well.

"I'm not in the mood, Héctor." Lips pressed against her shoulder in response, hugging her closer to his lithe frame. "Get your big nose off of me!" Her hands fisted in the shirt, prepared to make the clothes into a weapon.

"They're just kids." He murmured the words against her skin, kissing a comforting trail up to her ear. She found herself relaxing against him, a weary breath escaping as her shoulders slumped. "They say things they don't mean." She began to scrub again, nails digging into the fabric as she worked soap into the white cloth.

"They meant that."

"They did not." She looked up to see him watching her reflection in the window, cheek pressed against her hair. _Stupid H_ _é_ _ctor, with his elephant ears and cute eyelashes..._ She grumbled, trying to ignore how the sight of him could still make her flustered, especially when he was looking at her like _that_.

"They did." She turned back to the task at hand, trying to keep the blush off her cheeks. "I'm just the dumb sister who put a roof over their dumb heads and free shoes on their dumb feet."

"Who loves her dumb husband and their dumb daughter," he laughed, arms tightening around her midsection. "In their dumb old house in a dumb little town." She found herself smiling, despite everything.

"What a dumb life." Her wet hands covered his as they rested on her stomach, and she twisted to kiss his jaw. He hummed appreciatively. "And dumb me loves every minute of it."

"So do I, _mi amor_. We're two of a kind."

" _You_ might think that, but I don't agree." He snorted, but didn't reply. He held her as she rinsed out Oscar's shirt, letting it sit in the dish drainer while starting Felipe's. He hummed a little tune, foot keeping a slow rhythm as his chin rested on her shoulder.

"I, uh—I went outside to look at the bike."

" _Ugh_." She stopped, rolling her eyes. "You were doing _really_ well there for a minute, Héctor. Don't spoil it."

"I'm just saying."

" _I'm_ just saying: they're not keeping it." She attacked a streak of muddy earth with fervor. "End of discussion."

"I have to give them credit: it's a sweet ride."

"Do you _want_ me to smother you with this shirt?" She hunched over the sink. "Keep talking, _músico_ : let's see where you find yourself sleeping tonight." He ignored her threats, his hips bumping against hers lightly as he leaned down to growl right in her ear.

"You know… you and I could take it for a little spin after Coco's asleep," he ventured, voice dropping just enough that a shiver ran down her spine. She put the shirt down, letting it soak in the water as she turned to press her back against the sink.

" _H_ _é_ _ctor_." She arched her brows, letting him know without a word exactly what she thought of the idea. He wasn't perturbed, a sultry smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"Think about it, 'Melda." His brows wiggled suggestively, looking more like squirming caterpillars than anything remotely sexy. "You, me, the open road?" His voice fell even lower as he loomed over her, bracing his hands against the counter. "I know you'd like it."

"The answer is _no_." She turned back to the sink; he nearly bit his tongue, jerking away to avoid bumping heads. "I have no desire to die on your _open road_."

"Ah, you wouldn't die." He played with the loose hair at her nape. "I'd take care of you."

"I barely trust you with the _car_ , Héctor. Why would I let you take me on a two-wheeled death trap?" He clicked his tongue, letting go of her hips to lean against the counter beside her.

"Look, real talk." He snapped his fingers under her nose, forcing her to look at him. "I've been really thinking it over."

"Oh? Have you?" He frowned at her; it was enough to shut her up. _He really is serious._

"Those two? They're going to get that bike, whether you want it or not. I can tell how dead-set they are on it. Real boneheads." She knew that he spoke the truth. She'd known it even as she told them how they were going to take it back. But she didn't want to think about that, not now. Putting her foot down had always worked in the past; there was no reason it wouldn't work again. But for some reason, Héctor didn't seem so sure.

"I meant what I said, Héctor. My house, my rules. If they don't like it…" she trailed off, purposefully leaving the sentence unfinished. She didn't know exactly _what_ they could do about it. Go back to Mamá? They'd flunk senior year. She'd wanted them to have a good education and even a university degree, if she could have convinced them to go. Just because she worked in a shoe shop didn't mean they had to. They were smart boys, they had talent that would—she wasn't too proud to admit—go to waste in a _zapatería_.

"If we say no," Héctor continued, picking at the counter, "they're going to get another. Even if they have to run off by themselves to do it. It's just how men are, _mi amor_. They're going to chase that dream." She hazarded a glance, seeing his distant expression. The emotions swam in his eyes, but he looked past her to some far-off memory. "Even if it's the wrong dream. If it feels right at the time…." He was speaking from experience, now. She sighed, chewing her lip as she thought. She couldn't say that they wouldn't—she didn't think _he'd_ run off, either, not until she saw the packed suitcase in his hand.

"What do you suggest?"

"Let them keep it." She huffed, pushing back her bangs until they clung wetly behind her ears.

"Why on earth would you—"

"Hear me out." He tapped the metal rim of the sink, mouth pursed. "Listen, if we let them have it, at least they'll stay here."

"They just said—"

"Oh, do you _really_ believe that those two would take a hike if they didn't have any money?" He laughed. "They'd be dead in two days, and they both know it. They just said it to make you mad."

"They're going to get themselves killed." She rinsed out Felipe's shirt as well, draining the water before starting to wring them out. "Don't you remember? The night you came home, I was at the hospital because they thought it would be a good idea to _jump sheep_."

"They were younger! Surely they know better now. I don't think you have to worry about them pulling crazy stunts. They just want some freedom, Imelda. _Escúchame_ : if they go to Mexico City with that bike, it's all over. At least if they stay in Santa Cecelia, we can keep an eye on them. Everyone in town knows each other, and word travels fast. We have half a chance of making them behave."

"We're talking about Oscar and Felipe, Héctor. Do you really think they'll behave themselves for one minute if we let them out of our sights?"

"If we just set some ground rules, then—"

"If I say yes and they end up dead… it's over! What am I supposed to tell my family? They dug their own graves, and I handed them the shovel!"

"Imelda." His voice was firm now. "You gotta stop acting like they're kids. They're grown up. You have to start letting them make their own decisions. This bike was all their own decision. Whatever happens, good or bad: they have to live with it, and we do too."

"They're _not_ grown up." He stopped her, his hand covering hers.

"When I was their age, we had a child." _Damn_. He did have a point. It was hard to think of her baby brothers as the same age Héctor was when Coco was born. Hell, she'd only been one year older! "What's more irresponsible: a motorbike, or taking on an actual baby?" He looked her in the eye, seeing the answer written on her face. "You know I wouldn't have done it any other way, but… well, we were kids ourselves. And yet we were adults, too."

"Yes…." She frowned, grinding her back teeth as she thought. She hated when Héctor was like this, all serious and making points she couldn't refute. He kissed her cheek, resting his forehead against her temple.

"I know you worry about them, _mi amor_. But we can't protect them forever."

"You just remember this when Coco is eighteen," she mumbled, turning to rest her cheek on his chest. His heart thumped beneath her ear, the sound familiar and soothing. "I'll think about it." Not agreeing, but not saying he was wrong.

"Think it over," he agreed. "And don't even _start_ to talk about Coco. She's not going to be eighteen for, like… thirty years."

"She's already six." He groaned.

"Don't remind me!" He pulled back, looking down at her. "You _will_ think about it, right?"

"I'll think." She frowned. "Did they put you up to this?"

"No, but I think they owe me big." He ran his thumb over her cheek. "Give me a kiss?" She smirked, reaching for his collar and dragging him to her level. Their lips barely brushed when there was a banging at the door, melodic but harsh.

"Who—?" She glanced at the clock. It was _way_ too late for guests, especially on a weeknight! He untangled himself from her, shrugging with an easy grin.

"Probably the neighbors, ready to complain about the bike parked on their dog."

"¡¿ _Qué_?!"

"Joking! I'm joking!" He held up his hands, stumbling into the table as he turned to go into the front room. Coco emerged from the hall, already bathed and dressed in her nightgown. She fisted one eye, frowning at them.

"Papá, it's time for the night song," she announced sleepily.

"Ay! A song about remembering, and I nearly forget!" He smacked his palm against his forehead, adopting his most rueful smile.

"Let your papá see who's at the door, and then he'll take you to bed." Imelda knelt, holding out her arms. "Come give me a hug, _mija_." Coco bounded over to her, flinging herself into her mother's arms. "Mmmm…." She held her tightly, kissing her above the ear. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Coco looked at her thoughtfully. "Are you still mad, Mamá?"

"A little."

"Oh." Coco leaned against her leg. "Are you going to be mad at them tomorrow, too?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"Can I ride the bike before they take it back?"

"Not a chance." As if she'd ever let Coco on one of those things! She had better be dead in the ground before the thought even crossed their minds!

"Please!"

"No, Coco. You are _not_ going to a motorbike, and that's final. I don't even want to hear about it."

"But—"

"Aren't you going to say anything to me? Or do I have to stand out here all night?" Both girls turned to the entryway. Coco was curious, having never heard such a voice before; Imelda was shocked.

"E-Ernesto!?" Héctor's amazement rang in the exclamation. Imelda's eyes widened, Coco leaving her arms to peer around the doorframe at this new visitor. He was a tall, broad man that she'd never seen before, and he currently embraced her papá so hard that his long legs lifted right off the ground. "¡ _Qué sorpresa_!" he wheezed, eyes bugging as he was hugged within an inch of his life. "Wha—what are you doing here?!"

"What do you mean?" Ernesto sat him down, clapping both shoulders with a laugh. "A man can't visit his own _amigo_ when he's in town?" He swayed slightly, offering a barely-drunk smile before punching said _amigo_ on the arm. Héctor laughed, rubbing the arm with a wince.

 _He's up to something._ Imelda didn't need to look at him twice to know it. It was a feeling as deep as the marrow in her bones, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. There was no way in hell that Ernesto de la Cruz left Mexico City for sleepy little Santa Cecelia unless he needed something from them.

Héctor had always been blind to Ernesto's little games—no, that wasn't true. Héctor knew exactly what Ernesto was up to nine times out of ten; he just saw something in the man that Imelda couldn't. He let his 'friend' walk all over him, smiling and shrugging whenever Imelda pointed it out. It frustrated her beyond belief because she _knew_ that Héctor could stand up to him: he just didn't!

"I—of course!" Héctor stepped back, smile widening as he waved him inside. "Won't you come in? I was just putting Coco to bed, but if you give me a minute I'd be glad to catch up. Did you get my last email?"

"Of course, of course." Ernesto looked around at the dimly lit living space, mouth pursed. "Hmm…."

"Um… Imelda, look!" He turned, his face full of unbridled joy that shone even through his apparent confusion. "'Nesto's back in town!"

"I see." She crossed her arms, standing between him and her daughter, who continued to peer shyly in from the kitchen. "What do you want, Ernesto? Might as well spit it out." She didn't miss the flicker of annoyance in his eyes, nor the twist of his mouth. But he smiled at her, and it seemed as genuine as anything Héctor could have given her.

"You're as warm as ever, Imelda." He held out his arms in what she guessed was supposed to be a happy, inviting gesture. "I just stopped in to visit Héctor, that's all."

"Bull—" She heard Coco move behind her; her jaw snapped shut, nostrils flaring. Héctor made a face behind Ernesto's shoulder, his eyes begging her to behave herself. She took a quick breath, trying to force a smile on her face and settling for an apathetic expression. She would be civil, for her husband's sake. But that didn't mean she had to like it. Of course, both men knew of her true feelings towards him; she'd never kept it a secret. But she had been raised with manners, and Coco was watching. She couldn't tell him exactly what she thought of him with a child in hearing range.

Héctor smiled as his eyes flitted between them, trying to think of something to break the tension in the room. He caught sight of Coco and reached out to her, motioning for her to come closer.

"Come here, _mija_ : do you remember your Tío Ernesto?" Coco shook her head at the question, running forward to hide behind Imelda's legs. "It's okay, he's not going to bite." Ernesto frowned at her, though there wasn't any heat behind the look; he seemed at a loss for what to think of her. "Come on—that's it." Coco hurried across the room, hiding her face in her papá's stomach and throwing her arms around his thin form. He put a hand on her head, motioning for Ernesto to speak. "Ernesto, you remember our little Socorro."

"Ah, yes… how could I not?" His tone was light to the point of sarcasm. "She's all you ever talk about."

"She's not _all_ I talk about," Héctor argued. "I talk about Imelda, too." He laughed at his own joke, though Ernesto didn't seem to find it very funny.

"Yes… well." He lost his smile entirely as he looked down, nose wrinkling. "Ah. _Hola_ , little girl." He reached out hesitantly, fingers flicking as he considered the choice he was about to make. He lightly patted the top of her head, treating her as if she were something to be wary of, a stray dog on the street. "It's— _nice_? —to see you." Héctor beamed at him.

"Hey, come on." He shook Coco's shoulder gently. "Are you going to be shy? Say hi to Tío Nesto, or you'll hurt his feelings." She slowly emerged from the protection of his arms, looking up at this new, odd tío. He didn't look like her other tíos, gangly and young. He didn't look like anyone in Santa Cecelia, at that. His shirt was wrinkled, the bottom of his unhemmed pants frayed by admittedly low-quality boots. His eyes were faintly bloodshot, his thin mustache overpowered by a heavy five o' clock shadow, and his flat cap sat crooked on his head.

To her parents, he looked like a man who'd been on a long journey… a journey that clearly involved alcohol at one point. But to her, he looked like something else entirely. Something her mother had talked about before, but she'd never seen in person. Teacher had always told her to ask questions if she didn't understand. That was how you learned about the world. And her parents had always told her to greet people with a smile, because it was polite. So, she looked up with a gap-toothed grin and asked as politely as she could:

"Are you a hobo?" There was a pause. Imelda couldn't stop the snort of laughter that escaped, turning her back on the scene to hide her face. Héctor choked with laughter as well, trying to disguise it as a cough. He blinked rapidly, trying to look stern and only managing an expression that looked painful.

"Coco!" he admonished, wagging his finger at her. "We don't ask those kinds of questions!"

"Why not?" she replied innocently, looking up at him.

"I—well—we just don't. Tío Nesto isn't homeless; he's… uh…." Héctor trailed off, frowning at the state of his friend's clothing. "He's been traveling, that's all."

"Like a hobo," Coco summed up, thinking of the train-hoppers they showed on cartoons.

"No, not like a hobo!" Héctor looked as though he might shed tears if he held his laughter in any longer. "He's been on a road trip."

"Oh." Well, that explained things. A train didn't run on the road, so clearly he couldn't be a hobo after all. Coco swallowed her disappointment, having been excited to meet a real vagabond. "You really _aren't_ , are you?" she sighed at her new uncle. She watched as he turned a funny shade of red, the color spreading from the tips of his ears down to his collar. His mouth gaped like a fish, and then he made a funny noise that send Imelda into another round of muffled, gasping laughter.

"E-Ernesto?" Héctor reached for his shoulder, brows wrinkling.

"You rude little girl!" His hands clenched into fists. "Of course I'm not! Are you!?" Coco blinked, surprised. It was a valid question; he didn't know her.

"No!" she answered seriously. "I live _here_."

"That's not—"

"I'm six. How old are you?" Ernesto stopped short; he wasn't used to being interrupted. Usually, it was _him_ doing the interrupting. And he certainly wasn't used to being around children, or their disjointed questions.

"Twenty-eight," he said, taken aback. Coco considered this information; twenty-eight was more than twenty-five, which was an _enormous_ number. It took forever to count to twenty-five, even if you do it by fives! Her eyes widened with the knowledge.

"Wow! You're _old_!" she gasped with childlike wonder. To be as old as twenty-eight?! She couldn't imagine being that old. That was even older than her parents, _and_ her tíos! Of course, she meant this as the highest of compliments. To be so old, he _had_ to be someone amazing. But he didn't seem very happy to hear it at all.

"I am _not_!" he sputtered, face getting darker as both her parents burst into laughter. His hat slipped a little on his head, hair falling into his eyes. She grinned, biting her lower lip as she giggled.

"You're funny, too!"

"I am not!" She made up her mind, then and there. _He_ _ **is**_ _my Tío Nesto after all._ Only her papá could have such an old, funny guy like that for his friend. And she resolved to love him, since he was benevolent enough to be _her_ tío. She pushed herself out of Héctor's arms, running to this newcomer and wrapping her whole body around his nearest leg. She smushed her face against the rough denim of his jeans, grinning.

"Tío Nesto!"

"Ay! Ugh!" He tried to shake her off, balancing precariously on one leg. It only made her laugh harder. How did he know her favorite game? She thought only Papá played like this. She clung to him, laughing wildly as he tried in vain to kick her across the room. "Héctor! Your child has… attached herself!" He sounded utterly appalled. "Get her off, now!" Héctor was, unfortunately, laughing too hard to be of any real use.

"Sorry, Ernesto!" he hooted, holding his stomach. "She likes you; you're in for life, tío!" Ernesto looked more and more uncomfortable, hands hovering in midair as he tried to make up his mind. This kid was as clingy as a monkey on a palm; would it be easier to just _pry_ her off? Coco smiled up at him, resting her chin on his upper thigh.

"I _like_ you!" she agreed. He stopped short, a look of confused disgust on his face.

" _H_ _é_ _ctor_!" He yelled as Coco began to climb his leg; this—this _creature_ was going to strangle him if she went any higher, he just knew it! " _Get. Her. Off!_ "

"Alright, alright." Imelda crossed the room, tears of laughter swimming in her eyes. "Don't be such a big baby." She yanked Coco off with one swift movement, depositing her safely on the middle cushion of the sofa. "Say goodnight to…" she paused, frowning, " _Tío_ Ernesto. We'll be there to tuck you in soon." Ernesto adjusted his sleeves, watching her as though she were a live fuse.

"Goodnight!"

"Hmph." He watched her bounce back through the entryway with a look of minor disgust. Héctor tried to hide his smile, shoulders shaking in silent mirth.

"We're going to have to break you in, Ernesto," he said. "You're not used to kids."

"Ha-ha." Ernesto sniffed, rubbing over his scratchy chin and trying to gather his dignity. "She's… a handful, isn't she?"

"Oh, she's just a little girl. She'll grow out of it." Héctor shrugged. "So, what brings you back this way in the first place? Do you have a gig near here? I didn't see anything on your calendar."

"About that…" Ernesto, turned to Héctor, shouldering Imelda out of the conversation. "Look, I need a _little_ favor of you—" He grunted as Imelda punched him in the spine, her face falling into anger before either man could blink.

" _¡Ya lo sabía!_ " Ernesto didn't cower back from the harsh shout like Héctor, but he did lean away as she pointed a finger in his face. He'd learned the art of self-perseveration back in Héctor's courting days, where he was often the third wheel on their escapades. "I _knew_ you were up to no good! You come back here after all these years and what's the first thing out of your mouth?!"

"Imelda—" Héctor steered her by the shoulders, already working on his begging face. She knew it too well; it was almost always related to Ernesto in some way. _Please just one more time, this the last time, I promise, I really promise this time Imelda, it'll only be this once—_ she'd heard all the excuses before, and was ready to argue with him even in front of company.

"It's just for a few days." Ernesto gave them a charming smile, though it was the worst possible thing to do in this situation. Imelda's face darkened, brows close to meeting over her nose. He chuckled nervously, tugging at the creased collar of his shirt before appealing to Héctor again. "You understand, don't you? Just until the next royalty check is processed. I spent my last peso on a bus ticket, I don't have anything for a hotel—"

"Why did you come back if you couldn't afford it?" Imelda put her hands on her hips, looking very much like her own mother in the moment. "That was kind of stupid, wasn't it?"

"I—" He made a face at Héctor, who rolled his shoulders in a quick shrug. Héctor knew better than to stop Imelda before the time was right. He wasn't in the mood to share the couch with him, best friend or not. Ernesto sighed, rubbing his temples. "It's so demanding to be a musician these days. You wouldn't understand." Imelda's lip curled in a sneer.

"Try me, Mr. Musician."

"You have to remember to line up venues and keep your schedule straight, and allow for travel times and hotel reservations, not to mention the cost of equipment and the airfare, and if you try to _hire_ someone to do that for you, their prices are outrageous—" He stopped, running out of breath.

"So," she summed up, shifting her weight to one hip. "You got tired of doing everything that Héctor used to do for _free_." It was clear by his expression that she'd hit the nail on the head. Still, he waved off the accusation with a forced laugh.

"Don't be silly!" He rolled his eyes at her. "I just thought that if Héctor can make a living here as a songwriter, then _I_ can make a living here as a musician."

"Oh really?"

"It's 2012! The age of the internet!" He clapped his hands together.

"You're right!" Héctor bounced on his heels. "I can help you! We can make you a website, and a YouTube page. And you can play locally, too! There's always a wedding, or a birthday, or—"

"See!? There we go!" Ernesto took him by the cheeks, making him lift to his tiptoes. "Such a smart boy! Exactly what I was thinking! So, can I stay?" Héctor turned to Imelda.

" _Mi amor,"_ he simpered. "If he's got no money—" Imelda pushed him to the side, grabbing Ernesto's chin and dragging him down until they were nose-to-nose.

"You _really_ spent it all on a bus ticket? You want me to believe you had exact change?" she asked with a deadly calm. His schmoozing grin faded as she pressed down, fingers digging into the meat of his jaw.

"Well… I _might_ have stopped at the casino on the way—"

"Uh-huh." She let go abruptly, pushing him in the direction of the door. He stumbled into the side table, the lamp rocking. "There's a park bench down the street, _a-mi-go_. Until your check drops, you can sleep _there_."

"Imelda!" Héctor clasped his hands, wringing them as he looked imploringly at her. "C'mon, give the guy a break. He's my best friend; he won't be in the way! He can sleep on the sofa, o-or I can make him a bed in the—"

"Absolutely not! He got himself into this mess, he can get himself out. Did you not just tell me about adults taking _responsibility_ for their own decisions?" She crossed her arms. "Or are you just a hypocrite, Héctor?" He looked between her and his friend, clearly caught in a place he'd hoped never to be again.

"Just _one_ night?" he beseeched. She grabbed him by the ear, yanking him down. "Ay!"

"That man is a street dog," she snarled in his ear. "If you give him food and a place to sleep, he'll never _leave_. I'm not having a deadbeat waste his life on my sofa. You want him to live with you? Pack and bag and move." Héctor wilted, looking down at his socks. Ernesto stood sullenly in the corner, nursing his banged hip.

"Can we just put him in a motel for the night?"

"Héctor!"

"Please?"

" _H_ _é_ _ctor_."

" _Please_?!" She closed her eyes, but his goofy face was already branded onto the surface of her brain. _Damn you… you know I can't resist when you do that pouty-thing._

"Ugh. Fine." She shook her head, frowning as he gave a little leap of excitement and kissed her cheek. "You!" She pointed at Ernesto. "You can't stay here… but we'll put you in the motel for a week. _One_ week. The check will drop, and you're on your own. Got it?"

"Ah." He was all smiles again. " _Gracias,_ Imelda. You don't know how—"

"Do you want to have children, Ernesto?" Her heel tapped a threatening staccato against the floor. "Because if you do, you should leave while you're ahead." The smile flopped.

" _Dios te bendiga_." His jaw twitched. "For all that you do."

"Ah-ha-ha…" Héctor threw an arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the door. "C'mon, Nesto. I'll walk you to the motel. Where's your luggage?"

"Funny story about that—" The door slammed shut behind them, and she sighed. _That's the last thing I need. First the twins, now this idiot._ She knew Héctor had deep, brotherly ties to the man, but that didn't make him any less of a conniving leech. Coco came back into the room, looking at her before staring around the empty space.

"Tío Nesto didn't stay?"

"No." _Thank God_. "He's, uh—he's gone back to his place."

"Aw… I wanted to play with him." She raised a brow, unable to stop a smile from crossing her face. She didn't want Coco to be influenced by that jerk, but he seemed _frightened_ of her. Maybe if she let Coco _play_ with Ernesto a few times, he'd be scared into staying away. A hazy plan formed in the back of her mind, but she pushed it away as Coco added, "Isn't Papá going to sing with me?" _Ugh. Leave it to him to forget completely._

"Why don't I sing it with you? Papá has… to… to sing it to Tío Ernesto tonight." She bit her lip, hoping that Coco wouldn't make much of a fuss. "Do you mind?" Coco thought it over, sighing before shaking her head.

"If he needs it, then I guess I don't mind," she said glumly.

"That's my good girl." Imelda picked her up, kissing her warmly. "Come on. I'm not your papá, but I'll try my best."

* * *

 **Afterword** : I didn't want to make the twins too OOC, but knowing how teenagers are... sneaking in, doing things behind their parent's-or guardian's-back, being little brats: Imelda has her hands full, especially since she has two at the same time.

The joke originally was that Ernesto is this deadbeat guy stuck in hipster fashion, having an early mid-life crisis. He constantly breaks into the house and crashes on the sofa in the middle of the night, eats all of their food and keeps Héctor busy with his schemes. Kind of like Cosmo Kramer. Coco adores him even if Imelda doesn't, and I tried to make him as much of a self-important jerk as I could while toning down the whole murder thing. He just really wants to be part of something, wants the love and connections that being in a family gives him, but hangs out on the fringes of their lives because he doesn't have the capacity to swallow his pride.


	3. The First Day of School

Oscar's eyes flew open, his body tensing.

This was highly unusual. Normally Felipe was the light sleeper, but Oscar could hear his twin snoring across the bedroom. He wiped his eyes with a grunt, tentatively emerging from the blanketed cocoon he'd managed to make for himself whilst asleep. He didn't remember any dreams, certainly not any disconcerting enough to jerk him out of deep sleep. And the world was quiet-ish—or as quiet as Monday morning could get.

The sun was still rising, barely high enough to throw a pale square of light onto the wall above his blanketed feet. He stretched out his neck like a tortoise, looking over the cluttered table between the two small beds to check on his brother. Felipe was sprawled sideways across his mattress, shirt riding up his stomach and blankets kicked off the side of the bed. He could hear Imelda humming in the kitchen, the muted clatter of dishes being unloaded from the dishwasher. Don Rodríguez's old jalopy fired up with a cough and a sputter, pattering down the road towards the heart of town.

Oscar retreated under the covers, the stifling coziness of his bedsheets enveloping him in a warm lethargy. They'd crept in late that night—or, rather, early that morning—and a tired headache was beginning to thump behind his eyelids. A little more sleep would cure it, at least until Imelda marched in and dragged them up by their collars. _She_ didn't care what time they came in, or how much sleep they had. It was their own fault if they couldn't make it home at a decent hour, and work _always_ began at 8:00 sharp.

As annoying as her callous behavior could be, it was the price they paid for staying in the Rivera house as adults. Even though they were in their mid-twenties now, neither he nor Felipe saw any reason to move out and find their own place… yet. It was a matter of practicality, rather than any real dependency on Imelda. They worked in the _zapatería_ , their work shed was in Imelda's backyard, and they got three square meals (plus laundry service) in exchange for occasional babysitting. No rent, no bills, no stairs to climb, no annoying neighbors. It was an almost perfect existence.

Though not without drawbacks.

Oscar heard a muffled giggle, and then a rapid-fire strum of guitar strings. His entire body seized again, for an entirely different reason. His eyes widened, face sinking down into the blankets. _I know that tune… oh,_ _ **no**_ _—_ His mental panic was cut by two sharp _gritos_ : one high and shrill, the other deep and long.

" _Ay_ …." Felipe groaned, raising onto one elbow and looking around in confusion. Oscar motioned for him to get down, but his hands were tangled in the blankets. It was too late, anyhow: the firestorm had arrived. The bedroom door flew open and slammed against the far wall with a well-placed kick. It rattled the windowpanes, knocking a mostly empty can of compressed air from the nightstand.

" _OOOHHHH_ , _it's… the…._ "

Oscar yanked the blankets to cover his head completely, hiding like a child and leaving Felipe to his fate. His brother was beyond saving. Even with the quilt and the bedsheets, there was no stopping the loud singing and enthusiastic guitar chords.

" _First day of school, so wake up! Wake up!_ " He grunted, the breath knocked out of him as his niece leapt onto the bed. She landed on all fours, nearly cracking a rib—or both his kneecaps—as she jerked the blankets off his head. Her papá flipped on the lights, twirling into the room on the heel of his shoe and providing both background singing and musical accompaniment. Oscar squinted against the brightness of the uncovered bulb, his headache quickly becoming a migraine. Felipe flopped onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow with muffled curses.

" _Everybody in the house, wake up! Wake up!_ " Coco bounced on him as she sang, her round face glowing with a gap-toothed smile. "Good morning, Tío Oscar!" she added, granting him a face full of minty fresh breath. She clambered onto her feet, hands on her hips as she proudly displayed her new, freshly ironed school uniform. "It's time to get up!"

" _Sí_ ," Héctor agreed heartily, his hair as messy as ever above a scrubbed face. He stopped playing long enough to rap his knuckles lightly on the back of Felipe's head. When that garnered no response, he yanked the pillow out from beneath him with the speed of a man whipping a tablecloth from beneath fine china. Felipe pressed his cheek to the bare mattress, groaning under his breath with limbs as limp as Coco's favorite ragdoll. Héctor pressed a long finger to his cheek, pressing down with a coo. "Wakey wakey, _dormiloncito_!"

"Mmph," came the eloquent reply, along with a halfhearted slap in his direction.

"We're not even in school anymore," Oscar complained as he rubbed his eyes on the edge of his quilt. The silly song was one of the more annoying Rivera traditions, born in a time when three children had to be dragged out of bed instead of one. Not even one, now; Coco still enjoyed school, and didn't need anyone to yank her off the mattress by the ankles. _Yet_.

"We need our sleep," Felipe moaned in agreement. Coco shook her head them, clicking her tongue in a perfect mimicry of her mother.

"It's the first day of school," she protested, bouncing on the bed. The headboard shook against the wall, her new ribbons flying as her plaits flopped about her shoulders. It was impossible to ignore the minor earthquake, Oscar's teeth rattling in his skull as he tried to keep his tired eyes locked on her. "Besides, this is a _special_ first day of school," she explained, showing off the hem of her blue pleated skirt. "Today's my first-ever day of _secundaria_. I'll never have another very-first day. Were you going to miss it?" she pouted, leaning over him and lifting one eyelid.

"No, of course not," he lied through his teeth. "Uh… we just expected you to save us for last."

"We _did_ save you for last. Didn't you hear Tío Nesto yelling?" _Oh… yes._ He had heard that, hadn't he? That must have been what originally woke him up. It was no surprise he hadn't really connected the dots; after six years of listening to Ernesto de la Cruz shouting at the top of his lungs, it faded into the white noise of daily life. He hadn't paid any attention to it until she pointed it out for him. Looking up at her, he felt a rare vein of something like sympathy for the man.

"I guess you jumped on him too, right?" Coco grinned.

"It didn't hurt him," she quipped, sounding just like her mother. She'd heard the same said not ten minutes before, no doubt. _Serves him right,_ a darker part of his mind piped up with a chuckle. _That's what you get for not going to your own house._ He couldn't argue with that logic, and the sympathy he might have otherwise felt vanished in a puff of smoke. _He_ lived here; being woken up by a kid was something to be expected every so often. Ernesto had a choice, and if that choice had the consequence of being tackled by a twelve-year-old, then who was he to complain?

Ever since he came back to Santa Cecelia, Ernesto had developed the weird habit of just… showing up. He was there when they woke up, stealing a cup of coffee and watching cable, or showing up uninvited to drag Héctor on some money-making scheme, or just hanging around and complaining while staying out of Imelda's shoe throwing range. He even ended up on their sofa in the middle of the night, sleeping off whatever liquor he'd managed to find and using someone's shower before stumbling back home. Imelda didn't like him, but she tolerated him for Héctor's sake. The twins didn't like him, but only because he always had a few scathing remarks up his sleeve and they weren't the best at rebuttals.

Coco, however, loved him.

For whatever reason, the child had attached herself to her 'third tío' from day one and _refused_ to let go. She was utterly enamored, listening to his stories of grandeur in the music industry for hours on end without complaint. She could often be found on Saturday mornings, sitting on the couch with his legs draped over her lap, watching cartoons while waiting for him to finish sleeping off his stupor. _Or,_ if she was in an energetic mood, she seemed to take a delight in torturing the hungover has-been by yelling in his ear to wake up and play. Imelda found that hilarious, though she—and the rest of the family—did note that his distaste for children cooled to apathy where Coco was concerned.

"No, Tío Felipe! You can't go back to sleep!" Oscar bounced as she jumped from his bed to Felipe's in one frog-like bound. She braced against the far wall, nearly sitting on her uncle before scrambling around to shake his shoulders. "Stay awake!"

" _Cocoooooo_ …." The man was catatonic, unable to garner enough strength to push her off. "We're tired…."

"Late night?" Héctor said knowingly, leaning over to tickle the exhausted man's mustache. Felipe's nose wrinkled and he pushed his hand away, rubbing over his eyes with a yawn.

"Too late," Oscar sighed.

"Let's see… 2:00?"

"Make it 3:00," Felipe corrected, hand flopping listlessly over the side of the bed. "What time's it now?"

"6:45!" Coco announced, a little _too_ chipperly. Both men groaned.

" _Pobrecitos_ ," Héctor laughed. "It's your own fault, though. Staying out so late on a school night." He chuckled again, twisting his guitar behind his back and lifting Coco off Felipe. She giggled, wiggling in his arms before falling with a thump to the ground and shooting off into the hallway, fueled by sugary cereal and excitement.

"We didn't think about it being the first day of school," Oscar protested wearily. "Do you think we're worried about school anymore?"

"You'll remember to check from now on, won't you?" Héctor winked at him, stuffing his hands in his pockets and singing the last few words of the First-Day-of-School song acapella. " _Grab your pencils, grab your books; summer's at an end_!"

"Ugh." Felipe managed to roll onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Go away, Héctor."

"Alright," he consented, walking backwards from the room. "But you'll have to hurry if you want to wrestle that coffeepot from Ernesto." He shut the door behind him, kicking up his feet and humming as he followed his daughter back to the kitchen. From his bed, Oscar could hear Coco announcing to Imelda that her work was done, the entire house now being awake.

"He's not wrong," Oscar said, more to himself than to his brother. Ernesto would have the entire pot finished on his own, if left to it. Felipe let out an answering huff, rolling himself off the mattress with a heave and searching the floor for where Héctor had put his pillow. Oscar stretched in place, spine cracking from his legs all the way up to the base of his skull. He'd been in the driver's seat last night and had a nasty habit of hunching over the handlebars. It gave Felipe more room in the back, but Oscar knew from personal experience that there was more than enough room when _he_ rode on the back and Felipe sat up straight.

The two climbed from their beds, turning to tuck the sheets neatly back onto the bed and smooth them across the mattresses. Imelda could tolerate a messy room, but she insisted that the beds be made each morning. They'd lived there long enough that it had become second-nature, and the morning never felt right if they skipped this vital part of their routine.

Felipe dragged his feet on the way to the closet in a sluggish haze, only to shock himself on the metal doorknob. He yelped, shaking his hand and frowning at the cold, unfeeling metal before opening the closet door. Oscar left him to it, going to their threadbare dresser and yanking open the drawers.

The top drawer of the dresser was Oscar's, the bottom drawer Felipe's. Anyone outside of the family would have just seen two drawers, identical down to the number of socks and exact placement of neatly folded undershirts. Regardless of how it _looked_ , they kept meticulous records of what clothing belonged to who. On every pair of boxers, on the tag of every undershirt, on the inside of each sock was a brand in permanent marker: F, or O. Clean clothing found itself folded on the foot of the appropriate bed, ready to be put away. That was fine: they only trusted each other to put the clothes correctly in the right drawer, and in the right order at that.

The closet was the same way. The right side belonged to Oscar, the left to Felipe. The center was taken up by a rickety metal shelf they'd purloined from the laundry room, three stories high. The bottom tier was unfinished shoe ideas, from baby Coco's self-walking shoes to their latest creation of 'fish-flops'… flip-flops that looked like two herring. The middle shelf held metal bits and bobs for the bike, or other small appliances, including the casing and wiring of the front outside light they'd taken down years ago and never put back up. The top shelf was reserved for two identical pairs of Rivera brand hiking boots: size 11, double-stitched, waterproofed both inside and out. The hangers held identical jeans, identical shirts, two neatly pressed suits inside two plastic dust covers, and several old school uniforms.

Oscar pulled out two pairs of underwear, socks, and undershirts from the drawers while Felipe picked today's outfit, which ended up being jeans and discolored white tee-shirts. They dressed silently, habitually making sure they were putting the right letters on their bodies before picking up their glasses from the middle nightstand. They stared down first at their glasses, then the other's glasses, and promptly swapped before settling them on their noses. When they were through, the mirror showed a perfect clone-copy down to the ragged cowlicks sticking up over their foreheads.

They went next door to the bathroom, the fit a tight squeeze now that they were older. They were both still bone-thin, as their mother liked to point out every time she visited, but they'd managed to fill out some after the stresses of their school days were over. They were never going to equal Ernesto's broad chest, but they still managed to beat Héctor's skinny frame with the wiry muscles they'd gained from years of handling their motorbike, stacking rolls of leather, and hefting heavy boxes for their sister.

They brushed their teeth quickly, and then turned attention to their hair. Oscar smoothed down Felipe's, and Felipe smoothed down Oscar's, fighting the wet comb until they managed a neat part and smooth locks. The only thing that didn't behave was that damn cowlick, which they both had long given up on. There was no use trying to fight a battle they couldn't win, no matter how much grief Imelda gave them for it. A quick face scrub, wiping the sleep from their eyes, and they were as ready to face the world as two men on three hours of sleep could be.

In the kitchen, Coco bounced at Imelda's side, watching her cut the fruit that was going into her lunchbox. Imelda was dressed in her best suit, her hair smooth and shining with a purple ribbon adoring her usual bun. Héctor sat at the table, writing in his songbook with Imelda's pen while his own pencil sat precariously behind his ear. Ernesto sat in Imelda's chair next to him, red-rimmed eyes staring at the back of the cereal box without seeing it and a mug of black coffee between his hands.

Oscar pulled the milk from the fridge, sneaking a quick drink straight from the jug when Imelda's back was turned while Felipe took bowls, spoons, and glasses from the cabinet. They sat in their usual chairs, grabbing Coco's kid cereal instead of their own preferred corn flakes. They needed all the pep they could get, and her _choco zucaritas con malvaviscos_ along with the coffee _should_ do the trick. Imelda always complained that there was enough sugar in one bowl to kill a grown man, and they were willing to take the risk if it meant enough of a high to get through a morning of shoes.

"Good morning, you two." Imelda looked over at them as she fastened the clasp to Coco's lunchbox. She looked at the bags beneath their eyes, their dulled movements, and the corner of her mouth twisted in a self-righteous smirk. She probably thought that getting them up early would prove a point, or at the least teach them a lesson about coming in right before the crack of dawn….

"Morning," they mumbled, pouring insane amounts of cereal on top of a miniscule puddle of milk in the bottom of their bowls. Oscar managed to nab the coffeepot, dividing the last of it equally between the two mugs; he couldn't count it as a victory, since Ernesto didn't seem to notice that it'd moved at all. He was watching Héctor write now that the cereal box was out of his reach—or rather, he was watching the light glinting off the pen's metal clasp.

"I'm going with Coco to the morning assembly, so it's up to you to mind the shop until I get back." She handed Coco her lunchbox. "Remember that the Dance Academy should be by around noon to pick up their order; I have it stacked beneath the counter, but _make sure_ there are _twelve_ pairs, alright?" She bent to kiss Héctor's cheek. "Twelve. Got it?"

"Got it," they replied in unison. Héctor mumbled, agreeing under his breath as he crossed out a stanza and began to rework it on the opposite page.

"Don't work too hard," she told him, looking over his shoulder with a smile. Héctor had proved to be worthless at shoemaking. Not that he hadn't _tried_ ; on the contrary, he had stayed up past midnight for weeks on ends, trying to cobble something that looked like footwear instead of an Eldritch horror. Imelda had been physically nauseous at some of his worst designs, and she'd eventually conceded that while Riveras were shoemakers, through and through—Héctor was Héctor.

That didn't mean she loved him any less, or that he couldn't be of any help at all in the _zapatería_. What he lacked in shoemaking, he more than made up for in charisma. He was the friendly face of the shop, providing background music and lively chatter while customers browsed and waited for fittings. On top of that, many of the songs he wrote were being sung by the most famous voices in Mexico. The royalties he earned were more than enough to keep the Riveras comfortable, and so both husband and wife could do what they loved while still supporting the other.

"Papá, Papá! How do I look?" Coco stood in the middle of the kitchen with her ribbons neatly retied, new backpack over her shoulders and new lunchbox tightly in her grasp. She spun, the edges of her skirt rising over her knees as she showed off. Héctor looked up from his notes, watching her spin with a smile.

"Very beautiful!" he assured her. "You'll do the Rivera name proud at this fancy-schmancy new school."

"You really think so!?" Her grin spread from ear to ear as she looked to her mother for confirmation.

"Of course. How could you not, with those patent leather shoes your tíos made for you?" Oscar and Felipe smiled, looking down at the shined black leather of her Mary-Janes. They'd followed the school code to the letter while still managing to put the Rivera charm in each stitch, a gift in honor of her graduation to the upper grades. They knew without a doubt that those shoes could last her all the way to graduation from _preparatoria_ , although with the way she seemed to double in size every time they looked at her she would outgrow them long before then. "Now, come along and let's get going. I don't want you to be late on your first day."

"Right!" Coco ran up and kissed her papá on the chin. "Bye, Papá."

"Have a good day at school, _mija_." She turned and jumped onto the lower rungs of Ernesto's chair, boosting herself on the table to peck his cheek.

"Bye, Tío Nesto." The act seemed to wake him up and he grunted, looking around for the coffeepot and scowling when he found it empty. Oscar and Felipe smirked at him over their bowls, sharing a devilish glance and laughing silently when he could say nothing to them. _You snooze, you lose_!

"Bye, Tío Oscar. Tío Felipe." They leaned towards each other, receiving their own farewell kiss on their narrow cheeks.

"Have a good time. Make some friends."

"Learn something we don't know."

"Eat your dessert first—"

"Don't fall asleep in homeroom—"

"Don't blow up the science lab on your first trip—"

"Don't tell the teachers who your tíos are—"

" _Ay_ , tíos!" Coco's eyes spun dizzily as her head rocked from one to the other. "You're confusing me!"

"Sorry. Have fun," they summed up. Imelda shook her head, taking Coco by the shoulder and guiding her on ahead. They waved with Héctor from the archway until the front door shut with a slam. All pretense gone, Felipe reached for the milk and copied his brother's earlier gulp before chasing it with a shot from his coffee mug.

"Already in secundaria," he sighed as he set the milk back in the middle of the table. "It seems like only yesterday—"

"She was a little baby in the hospital—"

"She got her first tooth—"

"She was starting kindergarten—"

"She _lost_ her first tooth—"

"She sewed her first tongue—"

"Hammered her first sole—"

They fell silent, lost in memory as they chewed on their chocolate, cavity inducing bowls. Oscar nudged Felipe with his elbow, jerking his head to the opposite end of the table where the other two sat. Ernesto was slowly leaning away from Héctor, who sat stock-still in his chair with the pen dangling loosely from his fingers.

 _T-minus three, two, one—_

" _Ay-y-y!_ " Héctor broke down, tears spilling over his cheeks as he slumped towards the table. "She's gotten so _old_! Where's my little girl?! She's already twelve?! _Ernesto-o-o-o_ —" he wailed, oblivious to the fact that his friend was quickly coming alive, the breakdown doing more for his hangover than the coffee ever could as he scooted his chair out of arm's reach.

"Get yourself together!" He demanded brusquely, looking more uncomfortable by the minute as Héctor began sobbing in earnest. "For the love of God, man!"

"I'm going to look up and she'll be married, and then she'll have babies, and then _they'll_ start _secundaria_ , and then I'll be old, and she'll be grown and—what am I going to do?!" Ernesto winced as Héctor's forehead hit the table with a thump, pencil falling out from behind his ear and rolling to the linoleum. He ran a hand through his hair, clutching it between his long fingers as he cried. He reached out and gingerly patted the top of his head, looking to the twins expectantly. Oscar and Felipe shared another glance, both thinking the same thing. They'd always been able to share conversations without saying a word, and now was no different.

 _I don't want to be stuck here with that._

 _Neither do I._

 _Let's go?_

 _Let's go._

They gulped back the rest of the coffee, burning their throats before standing.

"Well, better get ready to open the shop," Felipe said brightly, slowly backing away as Oscar shoveled the last few mouthfuls of chocolate milk/marshmallow mix into his mouth. Ernesto stood up, his expression promising vengeful wrath if they dared to leave him alone with Héctor when the man was an emotional wreck.

"Cheer up, Héctor," Oscar said, spitting cereal by accident in his hurry to leave.

"Yeah, cheer up. Can't have the customers crying."

"O-Okay, I'll t-try…" He looked up at them, mouth wobbling. "It's just… my little girl-l-l!" He fell straight back into round two, wiping his eyes. "Ernesto, hold me—"

"Eww, no!"

"Just until Imelda gets back—"

"I said _no!_ " He jumped from the table, recoiling from the watery mess in front of him. "Get back here! He's _your_ brother in law!"

"He's your _amigo_!" They called back, scurrying to the front before he could catch them. Even hungover, Ernesto had the aura of a man who just _might_ make good on a threat. And they couldn't waste time trying to make Héctor shut up—why try? When Coco started kindergarten, he cried for a solid hour before managing to pull himself together. The man made good music, but he was a little _too_ in tune with his emotions.

Oscar opened the front door of the shop while Felipe opened the service window, taking Imelda's place behind the counter with friendly smiles and picking up their current work orders. They began to sew, their movements in unpracticed unison while the muffled sounds of the main house carried through the thin walls.

"Just a little hug, that's all I'm asking—"

"I'm not _holding_ you!"

* * *

 **Afterword:**  
These chapters are going to start falling in the 'oneshot' category. Loosely connected, but not following any overarching story-line.  
We joke that it's a Coco AU sitcom, and so you can consider these chapters as individual episodes of the same ridiculous TV show. ;)


	4. The Trade

The sun was merciless.

It beat down from a clear, cloudless sky, baking the leaves to a crisp and radiating off the dusty cobblestone streets. A haze stretched over the horizon, waves of heat warping in the breezeless causeways and burning the asphalt roads in the metro heart of the city. There was hardly anyone on the streets—only those on business dared to face the suffocating grip of the outside world. The children were in school, most adults at their jobs, and the rest clambering for someplace cool, where there was at the very least a fan to stir the thick air. Even the town's protective forces were procrastinating on their midday rounds, lounging in the air-conditioned interior of the Santa Cecelia Police Dept.

Calle Juarez was deserted, which made it perfect for the deal about to take place. Once a thriving business hub in the early 1900s, it was now just a cramped side street, home to a few beloved local businesses and flanked by a garbage-strewn alleyway. It faced the broad expanse of river backwaters that had once separated the rich and poor sides of town. The lines had blurred in the revolution years, and instead of poor tenants across the rusted metal bridge there were now neighborhoods of landowners who'd lived there for generations, since the days of their destitute ancestors.

The deal was to take place in front of the _tienda de autopartes_. It was a relatively open place to make illicit exchanges, but those involved were too bold—or too wary of the other—to worry about being seen from across the river, or from anyone walking along the cracked sidewalk in front of the shops. There wasn't any place more secluded that would benefit either party, even if there was nowhere to hide should the police come sniffing around.

There were no real parking spaces, not like in the heart of town where lines had been meticulously painted after cars kept blocking the buses leaving the station. Here, there were only indentions where wheels and rain had gutted the furrows between gutter and sidewalk. It was on either side of these furrows that the two parties stood, a deep rut standing between them like a gulf.

The right party was one boy, clad in the red vest and white polo of the _preparatoria_. What he lacked in size he made up for in girth, earning him the name 'El Monstruo'. When said by a compatriot, it was a term of endearment; all others whispered it in awe, cowering in fear of his colossal hands and irredeemable attitude. He ruled the lowest class with force, striking terror in the hearts of teenagers two and three years older. Despite being a newcomer, he had already made a name for himself amongst the teachers.

Sweat pooled beneath the rolls of his chin, where tufts of hair tried in vain to sprout to a full beard. It settled beneath his arms to stain the already dingy polo a nauseating off-yellow, dripping down the hairy arms to his gorilla-esque fists. Behind thick lenses, the dark, beady eyes locked on the other party, sizing them up as potential opponents; it didn't seem to matter that he could snap them like twigs beneath his meaty arms, from the looks of things.

Across the gulf stood a pair, boy and girl. The boy also wore a _preparatoria_ uniform; though the clothing was the same—except for size—the difference was striking. There was not a thread out of place on the young man, who stood with the air and grace of one nearly twice his age. His shirt was blindingly white, tucked neatly into the waistband of his pressed pants and his creased vest was almost at a calculated, perfect angle to his collar. His hair was neatly cut and oiled, brushed into a perfect sweep across a narrow forehead that drew attention to beautiful black eyes.

At first glance he looked more like a valedictorian than a thug, but beneath the gorgeous fringe of his lashes lay a cool, calculated gaze that was found in most professional criminals. He was not just a devilish sort of boy—he was the undisputed leader of the _preparatoria_. Beneath the teachers' blind eyes, he ran a tight ship with cruel authority. The bleating masses of students were beneath him; he dealt with the higher-ups in the student body, making sure _his_ name stayed at the top. For three years he'd singlehandedly groomed a family of thugs and thieves that mirrored some of the most ruthless gangs in the country.

The girl was his sister, a tiny twig dressed in the white blouse and blue skirts of the _secundaria_. She was already following devotedly in her brother's footsteps; not only was she his protégé, she was his eyes and ears in the lower grades. He was grooming her, using the _secundaria_ as her own private playground to train in. She had two years to take it over and set up the skeleton framework for a devotee of her own choosing before moving to take his place in the _preparatoria_.

She was more openly defiant, though in a harmless, youthful way. It was her preferred disguise, in the same way that a neat uniform and charming smile suited her brother. Her hair was piled on her head and tied with a bright headscarf—against school regulations, of course. Her nails were filed to points and painted bright purple; the same color stained her thin lips, which closed occasionally around the pale pink bubblegum she smacked. Spiky studs climbed both sides of her ears, reaching towards her tightly controlled hairline.

She had skipped school at her sibling's behest, both to learn how to deal in trade with others as well as to scope out the potential danger to her seat of power. El Monstruo might try to usurp the placeholder her brother would leave behind after his departure for university. Then again, her brother had already considered adding him as a useful ally; this trade would establish the boy's character. Was he someone to invite into the upper echelons of their family, or was he someone to crush before he found himself with too much power?

"Do you have the merchandise?" The leader's voice was warm and calm, someone who sounded as if they could be trusted. He hardly ever raised it, and in doing so kept his vocal chords smooth and rich. It was whispered that he'd never felt the embarrassing pains of a cracking voice in puberty—that he'd always spoken in such dulcet ways. His sister squinted against the sun, shifting her weight to one hip as she watched her brother step forward, standing just on one side of the gulf and well within arm's reach of El Monstruo.

"Do you have the money?" the other replied, panting slightly in the heat. "You were supposed to come alone. Are you that bad at following basic instructions?" The leader smiled, tilting his head before snapping. His sister stepped to his side, looking at the sweat stains on the humongous beast with distaste. She was almost half his size, but her demeanor alone made her seem as tall as the young man she stood beside.

"This is my sister. My business partner, in a sense." The leader reached into his back pocket, revealing a small wad of money. It was hard-earned cash his lackeys had gathered for him, shaken from the disgusting populace between classes. "Besides, only fools go anywhere alone." The implication of this wasn't missed by El Monstruo, who merely arched a brow in imperious amusement.

"Strange. I've always heard that it's better to never rely on others," he replied casually, reaching into the pocket half hidden by his massive stomach. He opened his fist to reveal a closed switchblade. "You'll want to inspect it first," he said. He knew how to play the game. The leader nodded, and he flicked it open with a flash of metal. He held the blade between his thumb and forefinger, turning it dexterously so that every inch of it could be seen. The leader's sister popped a bubble, leaning forward in interest with her eyes fully locked on the glint of the blade.

"I haven't let it rust," El Monstruo added, opening and closing it easily. It served twofold to show off his talents with the weapon. He even tossed it in the air, catching by the blade before holding it out towards the leader. "The money. Count it." The leader popped the rubber band with the edge of his nail, sliding it down around his wrist before flipping the paper over and counting out ten creased bills. El Monstruo's piggy eyes watched, checking for any sign of deceit before nodding as the leader rolled the band around the bills again.

"On the count of three: shall we?" Before El Monstruo could answer, there was the unmistakable sound of a motor from the main road. He turned, the leader and his sister looking around him as best they could. None of the three froze or bolted as children might be expected to do—instead, they simply stared to see who might be coming. The motor turned out to be no more than a motorbike, and they all turned back to their business without another word. The police didn't have bikes, and anyone else who might be riding wasn't worth their notice. They ignored it as it cut down the side street, slowing as the asphalt turned back to cobbled dust.

"Yes, on the count of three." One boy held out his cash, the other holding out the handle of the knife. The sister looked on, bored and hot and hoping that their parents had already left the house for the day, so she could go home where the air was decently cool. The leader took the handle, the gargantuan hand of the monster closing around the wad of cash.

" _Uno_."

" _Dos_."

"Hey." They turned again to see the motorbike slowing to a stop beside them. All three stared at its occupants, who stared back with indifference. The driver was a lanky man, dressed neatly in a two-piece set of motorcycle leathers. The natural mahogany of the leather was accented only with silver studs and buckles, and a plain belt keeping the pants cinched tight. Along with the round sunglasses on his long nose, it gave him the air of being a contender in some early 20th century derby.

A carbon copy of the driver stood on the back of the bike, using the frame and the crash bar as footholds. When they stopped completely, he rested his knee on the back of the seat to help keep the bike's balance, one elbow on the driver's shoulder. Two identical frowns, two identical head-tilts as they sized the three children up without a word. Even their boots were identical, down to the way the laces crossed twice over the middlemost studs.

"Hey," the one on the back repeated—or perhaps parroted the driver, the kids weren't sure. He nodded at them, pointing at the automotive store. "You're in the way."

"In the parking spot—" the driver added, stretching with both hands flush against the handlebars.

"Get on the sidewalk—"

"Off the street, at least—" No one moved, though the parties both took back their trades and kept them tightly in hand. The sister looked at her brother, waiting for his signal. She wasn't as good at reading adults as he was, and to be fair she hadn't met an adult yet that wouldn't snitch on a kid at the earliest opportunity. There was only one _secundaria_ in Santa Cecelia, and it would be too easy for them to get its number and call. Even if they _didn't_ know who she was, the fact that a truant kid was on the streets meant that the police would be on guard. The boy merely wondered if his sister could outrun them on her thin high heels. He wasn't above abandoning her to her fate to save himself, but it would be wasted work if the teachers tried to keep a closer eye on her.

A hidden conversation passed between their eyes, and then the leader nodded subtly at El Monstruo. It was time to see what the fat one did under pressure from adults. El Monstruo, seeing both his peer and a little girl waiting for _him_ , knew he couldn't back down. Even without knowing the leader's ulterior motive, he knew that if he played the simpering fool for a couple of nameless adults then he'd be the laughingstock of the school. Word _would_ get out.

" _I'm_ not moving," he sneered, drawing himself up to full height as he stared down the bikers. They didn't seem all that threatening—they weren't even all that _old_. It was true that they had broad chests, but their limbs were more like sticks. They had no corded muscles, no power to throw behind a punch. And what adult would punch a kid, especially one that hadn't seen his sixteenth birthday yet? There was a spanner sticking out of the driver's pocket, but he didn't worry about concealed weapons. Only a wacko would pull a gun on a kid in this one-horse town, and besides: he had his blade.

Their jackets were unadorned with patch or color. They didn't have any visible tattoos to affiliate themselves to a gang. They looked like law-abiding citizens that just happened to drive a bike. They looked like pushover adults. They looked like _nerds_. The drier twisted to look over his shoulder, and seemed to share a private, wordless conversation with his twin.

"Shouldn't you kids be in school?" the one on the back asked, looking pointedly over the rims of his sunglasses at the bright red vests of the boys.

"So what?" El Monstruo scoffed. "We don't _have_ to be anywhere." He'd been backtalking adults since he'd learned what words were. This was going to be a piece of cake.

"No," the driver said. "He's right. You really should be in school right about now. It's… y'know… sort of required."

"And?" Monstruo palmed the knife, forcing his smuggest expression on his face. "I'd like to see what you two oversized stick bugs think you're going to do about it." The one in front turned again, one brow arching perfectly over the rounded curve of his glasses as he mouthed ' _stick bugs_?' at his twin. They shared another long, silent expression.

"Well?" The driver asked. The one in the back sucked in his cheeks, rolling his shoulders. He pushed the glasses up to rest on his forehead, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"I'm only going to say this one more time." He opened them, giving the trio the full force of his glare. " _Move_." The order was calm, assertive, and yet it held the promise of something… darker. Something that just _might_ happen, if his demands weren't obeyed.

"Tch!" Monstruo shook off the shiver that ran up his spine. "I got two words for you, twiggy: _hell no._ " He turned back to the leader, giving the twins the cold shoulder. "C'mon, let's—"

"Your choice." The driver chuckled, the sound almost threatening.

"Your choice," the one on the back agreed. With a practiced movement, he dismounted the bike easily and walked towards them, cracking his neck with a sinister smile. The driver swung the bike in a sharp arc, boxing in the children between the shops, the sidewalk, and his brother. The leader took a breath, a slight stiffening in his biceps the only thing giving him away. His sister tried to keep her eyes on both twins at once, her jaw working as she hunched towards the ground. Unlike El Monstruo, they knew full well that there were adults in the world who would very easily consent to beating _anyone_ to within an inch of their life… even a child.

The driver stayed on the bike, cutting off any escape with an icy smile. It was mirrored by his brother, who stepped toe to toe with the monster without a sound. He looked down at the blade, still held in the meaty fist, and snorted. Monstruo blinked, and it seemed that within the span of a second his arm was grabbed, hand twisted, and his coveted switchblade was in the twin's hand. He gaped, astounded that an adult would lay hands on a student. He'd never known more than a coddling mother and pushover tías.

"Hey!" He blurted out, taken aback and suddenly feeling a lot more threatened without the weapon in his hands. He forgot his adult blustering, falling back on the tried and true, "That's mine!" The twin glared down at him, eyes merciless as he flipped the blade up and ran his thumb over the edge. He laughed, showing the uninjured digit to his brother.

"Dull!" he jeered. His brother laughed, shaking his head. "What good is this going to do you, _gordito_? This blade wouldn't cut paper." The boy stared, mouth working as the man looked down his nose at him. "A kid your age shouldn't be playing with knives, anyway. Who'd you get this from, your papá?"

"I ain't got one!" He snapped, lunging for the knife. The twin rolled his eyes, holding it high over the boy's head and continuing to study it with the air of a connoisseur. "I stole it off some tourist!" he boasted proudly, more for his peer's benefit than the adult's.

"Ooo." The twin tutted, shaking his head in mock censure. "That won't do at all, will it?"

"Not at all," the driver drawled. "Guess you don't have a choice, _hermano_."

"No choice," he sighed, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.

"No choice for what?!" He couldn't jump, couldn't even _attempt_ to jump, but that didn't stop him from reaching his flabby arms towards the sky, and his bargaining chip. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"If you _stole_ it," the twin said in another tone entirely, "then it won't hurt to do this." He turned on his heel, tossing the knife in a clean arc over the road. It landed with a _plop_ in the backwaters, sinking quickly out sight and barely stirring the algae growing over the stagnation.

"HEY!" El Monstruo roared, watching his chance at cash sink right through his fingers in the waist-deep water. "That was _mine_!"

"No, it wasn't." The twin was as calm as ever, crossing his arms as he glared down at the boy. "If you stole it, it was never yours. You can't be the rightful owner. I couldn't keep it, either: not with a clear conscience, at least. Now, it belongs to the river." Monstruo had never been treated this way in his life. The word 'consequence' didn't exist in his limited vocabulary, and he'd certainly never had an adult talk to him as though he were supposed to feel _bad_ for doing what he pleased. His face twisted, voice breaking on a whine as he betrayed how young he really was.

"But I want it _back_!"

"Then go swimming," the driver suggested, breaking into laughter. "Besides, it's back luck—"

"Yes, bad luck to bring a knife to a fistfight."

"F-f-fistfight?" Monstruo began to feel the first tendrils of fear creep into his bravado. The twin didn't answer, but cracked his bare knuckles in a matter-of-fact sort of way. Outnumbered, weaponless, and outwitted by those who seemed prepared to put him in his place, the boy shrank in on himself like a wilting weed. "B-b-but you can't fight us! We're just kids!"

The other two looked at him, unsurprised that such a coward would add _them_ to his own fight. The sister scowled in disgust, the leader annoyed at the clear display of cowardice. He quickly scratched any half-formed ideas of the monster out of his mind: this was a baby, someone who would be easy to bully into submission. There was no room for scaredy-cats amongst his elites.

"Oh, no." The driver leered at them, leaning on the handlebars. "Kids are in _school_."

"You want to skip like adults?" The twin grabbed El Monstruo's collar. He couldn't yank him up, but the gesture was telling enough. All the blood ran from the kid's face, his jaw trembling visibly. "Then you can fight like adults."

"Please, sirs." The leader spoke up, his voice betraying no trepidation. He had a firm grip on his sister's forearm, and looked between the two with calm deference. "We were actually headed to school right now. My little sister and I," he clarified, pushing the monster out of his excuse without a second thought. "I found out that she was skipping, and came to get her before our parents found out."

"Snitch," the girl hissed, immediately buying into the game and playing along. She kicked at the packed earth, leaning away as if she would bolt the minute her 'straight-laced brother' loosened his hold. She even dug her nails into the meat of his forearm, but the leader didn't do as much as flinch.

"This one," the leader added, "found us and was holding us up with his knife. He wanted our money," he said, playing the role of the straight man. He played it well, and it had gotten him out of scrapes like this many times in the past. No one doubted him, with his honest face and tranquil demeanor, his proper uniform code and good grades.

"Yeah, the bastard—"

"Quiet." The girl fell silent, flipping her hair. "So please, may we go on? I'd hate for her to miss afternoon classes as well." The twin stared down at him, brother to brother. The look on his face was clear: he didn't believe a word they said. The leader stared back, his face neutral and expression steady. He was a pathological liar; nothing could get him to lose his poker face.

"Go on," the twin finally said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the main road. "To _school_ ," he added knowingly.

"Naturally." The leader hitched up his arm, pulling his sister to his side. He'd pocketed the money some time before, while they were busy with the fat one. He could feel it now, safely pinching against the side of his thigh. "Where else would we go?" He passed them, flashing a triumphant grin at Monstruo as he dragged his sister towards the main road. "Thank you, sir."

"Mm. And you." He turned back to the monster, collar still caught in his fist. He flipped his glasses back down onto his face, the lenses catching the light. "This part of town is ours. Think about that, next time you decide to come around here during school hours."

"Don't bring anything you wouldn't want to take a dive for, _little man_." The driver snickered, wheeling the bike in the slot left by the leader and his sister. The boy blanched further, the sweat on his face having nothing to do with the heat as the driver dismounted and came to stand beside his brother. The two devilish sneers, mirrored eerily on both faces, were sure to inhabit his nightmares for a few days at the least.

"Get out of here." The twin let him go, and the hefty boy nearly slipped straight to the ground on jellied legs.

"M-m-man, whatever!" He scurried as fast as he could go, blade forgotten as he tried to put as much space between him and the stick bug _thugs_ as possible. He looked fretfully over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed; seeing how they watched him, he jerked in shock and doubled his speed, panting all the while. They waited until they could no longer hear his thudding footfalls, the driver sliding his arm around the other's shoulders. They glanced at each other, sneers fading into tight smiles and puffed cheeks.

"P…P… _pfft_!" They burst into laughter, leaning on each other and dangerously close to falling over with the force of it. The empty street echoed with it, bouncing between the walls and over the backwaters, which had grown as still and stagnant as before.

"That was great!" Oscar pressed his temple to his brother's, swaying slightly as he tried to catch his breath. "You were amazing!"

"Was I believable enough?" Felipe asked, beaming as he looked up the road. "I might have gone too far, throwing the kid's knife in the water like that."

"Ah, it didn't hurt anything." Oscar paused, thinking. "It didn't seem too hard to take it from him, though. Didn't he _try_ to stop you?"

"I have a harder time wrestling the remote from Coco," Felipe replied. "Then again, she _bites_. Maybe I've just become a natural at taking things from kids?"

"Maybe he didn't think a couple of _stick bugs_ could be that fast."

"Really. We're not even that thin." They each looked down at the other. "Are we?"

"No…. I mean I don't think so." They considered this point for a moment, and then looked up in unison. "It's really hot today, huh?"

"Hotter than yesterday."

"And the day before."

"Mm." Rolling his shoulders, Felipe nodded towards the auto parts store. "Well, let's hurry it up so we can go _home_. If we don't beat Ernesto, we'll never get to stand in front of the fan."

* * *

 **Afterword** : Felipe: this knife stolen... **_yeet_**

I know I said that the ice cream shop would be the next chapter, but I got this idea in my head and liked it so much that it came out first. I love the thought of the twins pretending to be the most threatening things and the only ones scared of them are kids who don't know better.


	5. The Heladería

" _Ple-e-e-e-ease_!"

Imelda looked up from her account book with a sigh. _Don't bring it in here, don't bring that in_ _ **here**_ _—_ it was no use. Despite her best efforts, she and Héctor had never developed the telepathic connection married couples were rumored to have. The back door of the shop opened, the muffled plea cutting through her silence and rising in volume until her fingernails dug into her cheek.

Héctor half-walked, half-limped into the _zapatería_ , hindered by the child hanging her entire body weight from his thin frame. He was dangerously close to being pantsed as he dragged Coco along by his britches, the rise of his bony hips revealing more of themselves with every step. He smiled painstakingly at Imelda, taking no more notice of the girl than if she'd been a gnat buzzing around his head. She frowned back, peering down at their daughter over the rims of her tortoiseshell reading frames.

" _Coco_ ," she scolded, seeing the girl take another deep breath in preparation for round—eight? Nine? She'd lost count. "Let go of him," she ordered. "You're too old to be hanging off your papá like that."

Coco didn't have it in her to disobey such a direct order, but she only followed it to the letter. Letting go of Héctor's midsection, she slumped down his legs and lay on the floor in a puddle of disappointment. Héctor continued to ignore her, taking the lid off a battered shoebox and placing it on the counter beside the account book. Imelda peered inside, muffling a groan of her own at the sight of six months' worth of unorganized content. Songwriting fees, various bills, and who knows how many loose receipts from his and Ernesto's 'local tours' filled the box to the brim.

It couldn't be helped. They had a meeting with the bank tomorrow, and she'd promised earlier in the week to help him sort out his mess so that they could both be prepared. Héctor didn't try to pretend that he was better at finances than his wife, and he did tryto help despite his inaptitude. That effort, plus the dozens of grateful kisses he'd bestow upon her later, was enough to give her the courage to face such a task head-on.

And besides… at least he'd _saved_ them this time.

"I'm almost through," she assured him, managing a grimace at the box. "Then we can start on… on that."

"Take your time," he replied, stepping over Coco to get Felipe's stool from the workbench and carry it over to the counter. He hiked up his jeans before sitting beside her, muffling a yawn behind his hand. They were silent a moment, ruminating, and then Imelda rolled her eyes with a huff.

"Coco, get offthe floor. ¡ _Pórtate bien_!"

"Mamá." Coco used the counter to pull herself onto her feet, a serious expression on her face. She slapped a palm on the counter, looking shockingly like a miniature of her mother as she looked up at her parents through her eyelashes. " _Everyone_ else has already been. If I don't go this weekend, I'm going to be the laughingstock of the entire school." Imelda barely managed to stop the smile threatening to twitch at the corners of her mouth. _Such teenage theatrics! I thought they might hold off until she was sixteen, at least._ She rested her chin on her fist, studying the still-little girl across the counter.

"Everyone," she repeated wryly. "And just who, may I ask, is everyone?"

"The whole school!"

"Name them, please." Coco groaned, shifting impatiently, but obediently began to count names off on her fingers.

"Gabriella and Julio and Ines and… Olivero, uh… Leticia… uhm…." She trailed off, biting her lip as she thought.

"Uh-huh." Imelda glanced at Héctor, and they shared a sly grin. "Big world." Coco looked between them, eyes full of disbelief, and then her forehead fell to the counter with a wooden _thunk_.

"Ugh!" She burrowed her head in her arms, and this time Imelda couldn't stop the smirk from forming. Héctor bit his lower lip, trying hard not to laugh. "You _want_ me to be some weird outcast."

"Hey, don't feel bad." Héctor reached out, running his hand over the top of her head. He tapped twice on the clean part between her braids, giving her nose a little tweak when she looked up at him hopefully. "The Riveras have alwaysbeen outcasts; you're just carrying on the family tradition."

"Héctor," Imelda scoffed, but she was already chuckling. He winked, ducking when she swatted at his shoulder affectionately. She tried to muffle her laughter in her sleeve, a small part of her feeling sorry for taking it so lightly when it was clearly a grave matter—at least to Coco. Her round cheeks burrowed out of sight once more, a painful-sounding moan muffled by the cage of her arms.

"Hey, it's true! There's no sense denying it." Héctor matched her posture, fingers laced neatly under his chin as his back bent like a willow branch. "I mean, just look at your tíos."

"Look at what?" As if on cue Oscar and Felipe came in through the front, scattering road dust and sunlight in their wake. Imelda tutted at their dirt-caked boots, but in the back of her mind there wasn't much she could complain about. At least they'd graduated to actual motorcycle leathers instead of dirtying up their everyday clothes, and they cleaned them… somehow; she didn't know and didn't really _want_ to know, so long as it meant she wasn't tasked with keeping them clean.

"At what?" Felipe repeated, looking between his sister and brother-in-law. "What about us?" Coco peeked up from her arms, glancing them over with a trembling pout. Héctor tilted his head, making a face at her when she looked back at him for confirmation.

"A real pair of weirdos, no?" The twins flushed angrily, a pale pink highlighting their thin cheeks as they glared over Coco's head.

"Ha-ha." Oscar made a sound of disgust, rolling his eyes.

" _Sí_ , _muy gracioso_." Turning his back on his brother-in-law, Felipe fished in the pocket of his trousers. "Here." His fist emerged with a wad of crumpled bills, forking them over to Imelda's waiting hand without ceremony. "From the academy." She smoothed the bills on the counter, counting them briskly before accepting with a nod.

"Prompt payment," she murmured to herself, handing the stack of bills to Héctor. He reached between his knees, digging blindly beneath the counter for the moneybox. "I'll mark them as a possible repeat customer."

"Polite, too. They— _ah_!" Felipe had unthinkingly leaned on the counter, holding his weight on his palms; he jerked one hand back, waving it with a hiss.

"What? What's wrong?" Oscar winced in sympathy as his brother surveyed the damage, his other hand holding back his fingers as he turned it in the light.

"Nothing," he assured her. "I burned my hand earlier and forgot about it, that's all." Imelda held out her hand and he let her take his wrist, biting his lip as she carefully ran the pad of her finger over the angry red mark.

"How did that happen?"

"It was my fault," Oscar offered. "I dropped one of the boxes when we were getting ready to go inside, and when Felipe bent to pick it up he put his hand on the exhaust without thinking."

"I stuck it in the fountain the moment it happened," Felipe added. "The one in front of the school? That took most of the sting off."

"The exhaust?" Imelda repeated, shaking her head as she let him take his hand back. "You're lucky you didn't hurt it worse."

"It was only on there for a minute—"

"A second, really—"

"Barely long enough to feel anything—"

"Just a little burn, it'll heal—"

"I wanna see." Her plight temporarily on the backburner now that there was something interesting, Coco eyeballed the hand with a sense of wonder. Felipe held out his palm and she leaned onto her tiptoes to see better, treating it with the same reverence playground children treated promising scars. Her tongue worked in her cheek. "I thought biker guys wore gloves," she pointed out after a moment's thought.

"Do you see us with gloves?" Oscar crept up behind her, thumping the back of her head before she could duck out of the way. She turned on him with a scowl, only to be jostled as Felipe's knee poked into her back. They grinned down at her, twin bullies that only sneered when she faced them with both fists raised.

"Besides," Felipe added, drawing his hand behind his back; she'd been learning some dirty moves from her _other_ tío, and it wouldn't be above the clever girl to add some extra heat to the burn if she could get a good shot in. "Be more specific." He winked at Oscar. "Boxing gloves?"

"Evening gloves?"

"Kid gloves?"

"Winter gloves?"

"Stop teasing her, you two." Imelda frowned at them as they ganged up on the poor girl, throwing her head in a whirl as they seamlessly picked up where the other left off. Teasing their niece was one of their favorite pastimes, almost as enjoyable as teasing their sister. It was sometimes cruel, since _they_ were big and _she_ was little, too little to do much when they held her down and tickled her until she squealed—for help only, never mercy. That didn't stop the obstinate child from trying to fight back, though.

" _Leather_ gloves!" she screeched, bouncing off Oscar. She looked more like a kitten pitted against a greyhound, spitting and scratching as she tried to pummel him properly though the thick leather pants. Imelda let out a breath between her teeth, rubbing her temples as she bent over her books. There was a reason they were sometimes banned from the shop; it was hard to get any work done when they were all in the same room. It was like trying to balance accounts while attending the loudest three-ring circus in Mexico.

"¡ _Basta_!" The three of them stopped, Coco in mid-swing while the twins crouched over her like a pair of demons. Héctor leaned away, eyes widening at the sharp snap of ice in her voice. "Coco, why don't you go find somewhere else to be?"

"Like the _heladaría_?" she offered, not missing a beat.

"Like your bedroom," Imelda retorted, feeling more like a strict librarian rather than a mother as she adjusted her glasses on her nose. "You're more than old enough to know when your papá and I are busy. We have an important meeting tomorrow; what we _don't_ have is time to drop everything and take you across town just because you want ice cream. The answer is no."

"But— _sí_ , Mamá." Recognizing defeat, Coco hung her head. Héctor winced, pouting as he looked at his daughter. He turned to Imelda, his patented puppy-dog eyes working little charm as she shook her head firmly, mouthing 'no'. She knew he wouldn't usurp her parental judgement, but it was still irksome that he felt more pity for his _preciosa_ than loyalty to her.

"Y-you know, maybe if you ask _really_ nicely your tíos will take you!" Héctor offered, nudging Imelda with raised eyebrows. She considered the notion; it would mean a quieter house, and easier workspace. Coco wouldn't be sulking the rest of the evening, and with any luck her sugar rush would be lost on the walk home, since she was forbidden to ride on the twins' bike.

"Uh, _no_?" Oscar's brow wrinkled. "We won't?"

"It's two o' clock," Felipe added over Oscar's shoulder, as if that explained everything. When met with blank stares, he sighed. " _Mexicánicos_?"

"That's the only reason we're home on Fridays?"

"Did you think we'd miss—"

"—a single episode?"

"Oh, come on!" Héctor clasped his hands. "We're begging you."

"No!"

"We always watch it on Fridays," Oscar insisted stubbornly. "We're not missing it."

"You can't watch it anyway," Coco informed him crisply, tugging on his belt strap. "Tío Nesto's here. He's got some movie-not-for-little-girls on."

"He can leave."

"And who's gonna make him?" she giggled. "He'll have you on the ground like Canelo." She changed her stance, boxing his leg with moves she'd seen watching the fights: one of the few 'bonding' moments she shared with Ernesto. Imelda clicked her tongue, shaking her head when Coco looked up. She put her hands behind her back, chewing the inside of her cheek with a frown.

"She's got a point," Héctor agreed. "Even with the two of you…."

"Thanks for the support," Felipe drawled, wiping his lenses on the edge of Imelda's blouse as they faded back from tinted sunglasses to their inside state. "We're so happy you believe in us, Héctor."

"I place my bets where the winner is," he replied, winking at his daughter and erasing her frown. "No offense."

"Uh-huh."

"Hey." The door to the back of the shop opened again. Imelda and Héctor turned, Coco bouncing on the balls of her feet to see over the counter as Ernesto poked his head through the gap.

"You're out of _Gansitos_ ," he informed Imelda curtly, glaring as though the lack of snack foods was a personal affront. Oscar shared a look with his brother, the two of them scowling as they mentally tallied who, between the lot of them, had eaten the most. He inclined his head, looking over his dimmed glasses at Felipe.

 _Ernesto?_ Felipe tilted his head, jerking his chin at the kid.

 _Coco_ , he argued. Oscar shrugged one shoulder.

"Did you write them on the list?" Imelda replied coolly, barely flinching as the door slammed open. He strode into the shop, an unopened beer in his hand. The twins blanched, recognizing it as one of theirs. But Coco and her papá were right; they couldn't confront him without being at least roughened up, if Ernesto was in the mood to accept their fight. "Or better yet," she added, ignoring Héctor's warning sound, "why don't _you_ go and buy them? Since this is basically your house."

"Excuse me?"

"That apartment is just a glorified dog kennel at this point," she continued, her pen tapping a staccato against the account book.

"What do you know? I—hold still—" He balanced the beer on Coco's head, who immediately froze. He placed both hands on the counter, looming over Imelda. "As a matter of fact, I _did_ write it on your stupid list. I just thought I'd let you know."

"You just thought you'd complain," Imelda argued, reaching over and plucking the can from her daughter. She sat it on the counter, pursing her lips at the look of reverent awe she held for the oblivious meathead. Coco would have stood there and been Ernesto's personal side table all afternoon, if he would have let her. She had no earthly idea what her daughter saw in him, to be so enamored with the man. Her only solace was that Coco constantly annoyed the living hell out of him whenever he came, to the point that even Héctor was surprised Ernesto never seemed in a hurry to leave.

God help them all if Coco started picking up _his_ habits.

"Tío Nesto." Quicker than a flash she latched onto his waist, head resting sweetly on his stomach as she batted her long eyelashes. He made his Coco-face, a mixture of slight revulsion and annoyance that would—should—have sent any other kid packing. "How much do you love me?"

"Not at all," he replied, in deceivingly dulcet tones. He poked her forehead with his index finger, prying her off with pressure alone. She leaned back, her spine pushed to its limits as her hands clung to his shirt with the strength of a leech. "Now go away."

"But I want to ask you something!"

"Hmm… no." He cracked open the beer, downing half in one gulp. Her shoulders slumped.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You're right." He waited until she opened her mouth before speaking again. "Nope."

"I didn't _say_ anything yet."

"And yet: I am unchanged." He ruffled the top of her head, pulling frizz from her braids.

"But you—"

"No way."

"But I—"

" _No gracias_."

"Papá!" Héctor shrugged helplessly. "Ugh! You're all no fun!"

"Aw, come on Ernesto." Héctor gave his most charming smile. "I'd owe you one."

"You owe me enough already to pay rent until I'm dead, Héctor."

"Owe?" Coco started at her papá, gears spinning in her head before gasping. "Wait!" She sprinted through the door, ignoring Imelda's call of "Don't run in the house!" A moment later she burst into the shop again, a folded piece of notebook paper in her hand. She brandished it at Oscar the best she could, standing on her tiptoes and holding it up at arm's length with a stubborn grunt.

"What?"

"You _owe_ me!" She proclaimed, stretching her body to its limits. "See? Right here: _le debemos un favor a Coco_! You even signed it at the bottom." Oscar leaned down, Felipe adjusting his glasses as they read the scrawl—Oscar's own handwriting, judging by the severe left tilt of the letters—and their own hurried signatures at the bottom. "When I gave you all the money in my piggy bank last month."

"Yeah, but—" Coco handed the paper to Imelda without a word, leaving it up to her to enforce the law. Imelda looked over the note, turning to the back and then arching a brow at her brothers.

"You wrote this," she declared, as if perusing some ancient historical artifact. They deflated, backed into a corner.

"Yes."

"And there's no expiration date." Imelda snorted under her breath, handing it over to Felipe. This was just like them, taking a child's hard-earned allowance and offering her some gimmick in return, only for karma to slap them in the face for it later. Any thinking adult would have put some sort of stipulation on their I.O.U.

"I'm cashing in my favor," Coco announced, crossing her arms. "I want you to take me to get ice cream. _Now_." Felipe opened his mouth to argue, and then sighed.

"I suppose we have to buy you the ice cream, too?" he asked, wilting further under her triumphant smirk.

"Duh."

"Can we at least take the van?" Oscar begged.

"No." Her smile fell as she considered the thought. The last thing she needed was them totaling the family car. Even _she_ had her limits.

"Can we take the bike?"

" _No_." This time Héctor joined her, adamant in their refusal. That was one of the ground rules they'd come up with years ago, when Imelda had finally been talked into letting them keep their motorbike. Coco was not ever, ever, _ever_ allowed to ride. It was a rare treat for her to be allowed to siton it, since that was just a gateway for her to wheedle an unsolicited ride out of her lenient tíos.

"We have to walk!?" Oscar groaned. "It's—"

"—a scorcher out there!"

"You'll be all the more grateful for your ice cream," Imelda replied sweetly.

"Come on!" Coco grabbed their hands, nearly horizontal as she leaned in the direction of the door. "Hurry it up, slowpokes!"

"Fine, fine!"

"Stop pulling, Coco!" Felipe frowned. "I knew we should have just paid her back."

"Shut up."

"Have fun!" Héctor called, waving after them.

"Don't stay out too late," Imelda added, laughing as she watched Coco exert all her strength yanking the two unwilling _tortugas_ out the front door of the shop and into the heat of full spring. "Well, that's what they get," she told Héctor.

"Better them than me," Ernesto agreed, sipping the remainder of his beer.

"You." Imelda slid the shoebox towards the two of them with her pen. "If you're not going to go with them, the least _you_ can do is help Héctor sort out this mess. Half of it is yours, after all."

"Ehhh…." Whatever excuse he was about to make fell under the force of her glare. He rolled his eyes, grabbing a fistful of gas station receipts from the top of the box with a moody huff.

"Never say I don't do anything for you, Héctor," he muttered, ignoring his friend's grateful smile as he squinted at the faded dates.

"Of course, _amigo_. Never."

* * *

Coco skipped through the front door of the _heladaría_ , both braids bouncing and happy as a lark. A little bell on the door tinkled merrily, matching her mood as her shoes tapped lightly on the new tile inside the shop. It was always a good day when she got things her way, an even better one when she was actually able to boss around someone older than she was.

She stopped in the doorway, eyes widening in awe as she tried to drink everything in at once. The outside of the corner shop looked just like it's neighbors, painted plaster dulled with decades of weather. Most of the buildings on the main strip—except for the white gleam of the hospital, bus station, and a few other modern buildings—had been in Santa Cecelia since before Abuelita Isa's time. They were still standing, but their age definitely showed and in many cases the insides were dim and cramped.

The _heladaría_ wasn't like that at all.

The twins followed her slowly, nudging her through the door and sighing in relief at the first burst of cool air from inside. The leathers protected them from crashes and burns—they were indispensable when riding—but walking in them under the merciless sun was another matter entirely. They looked around as well, pushing an awestruck Coco towards the unmanned counter.

The shop had once been an old _floristería_ ; the florist had died long ago, when they were younger than Coco. It had sat empty for years, growing more and more dilapidated as time passed and no one thought to buy it. Neither of them had set foot inside—there'd never been any need—but from first glance it was clear that the new owner had put in quite a bit of work. This wasn't a small-town ice cream parlor.

This… came from the city.

The walls were a pale seafoam blue, the tile beneath their feet speckled off-white. In fact, nearly _everything_ was white or blue, offset by the long steel countertop that reached nearly from door to door. It was segmented in two by the display case of ice cream, impeccably clean glass shining under the florescent lights. Strings of paper flowers were hung from the ceiling, catching the light and making oddly beautiful shapes as they twirled slowly in the breeze from the air conditioner. An old florist's fridge stood in the corner, painted white and filled not with flowers, but all manner of drinks.

Oscar scooped Coco up easily, depositing her on one of the stools in front of the counter before taking one himself. It was only after they sat that both boys winced, hoping the dirt from their pants wouldn't stain the patent white leather of the stools. Coco swung her legs excitedly, craning her neck to look at everything at once.

"¡ _Mira_!" she squeaked, pointing to a row of tall cabinets. The cabinets were white, the spaces between the upper and lower doors painted with little scalloped seafoam waves. On top, in the gap between the high ceiling and the tops of the cabinets, were seagulls. All manner of seagulls, in nearly every shape and size. Porcelain, wooden, glass, metal. Tiny, large, fat, thin, in flight, sitting on a nest… even one that looked as though it had been carved from a block of soap, delicate feathers etched onto its pale wings.

They were gathered around the largest one, a seagull _alebrije_ that took a clear place of honor in the very middle. It was all colors of the ocean, from the nearly black-blue of the deep ocean to the turquoise-green of dancing waves, each feather decorated with oranges, yellows, whites and reds of the most vibrant coral reef.

"Isn't it the prettiest thing you've ever seen?" Coco gushed, her eyes locked on the seagull's green-rimmed glass eyes. "I want it."

"Well, that's too bad. It's clearly not for sale." Oscar shifted uneasily on the stool. "Who owns this place, anyway?" he asked Felipe.

"Not sure. Arturo told us it had been bought out, remember?"

"That was months ago."

"Enough time to refurbish it," Felipe answered sensibly. "I can't think of anyone who loves the ocean this much, though."

"Me either."

"Ines said her mamá said the owner is from up north," Coco told them, resting her elbows on the counter as she looked through the archway and into the back. Ines was her best friend since kindergarten; her mother owned the grocery store—and the championship title for Santa Cecelia's Nosiest Gossip.

"The only ones from up north I know are the Martín's."

"But they're all carpenters."

"I know _that_."

"No." Coco shook her head, braids flying. "She's not from around here. She came on the bus, Ines said. Last week." Both twins froze.

"Not from around here?"

" _She_?" They shared a nervous grimace. "Coco, I'm not sure—"

"—you know, maybe we should—"

"—there's ice cream at the store, we could still—"

"No." Coco glowered at them. "Y _ou owe me a favor._ " She immediately brightened. "Do you want something to drink? Can I have a soda?" she asked, pointing at the fridge.

"Go ahead." Oscar ran a hand through his hair. "Ay, someone new."

"Some _girl_ that's new," Felipe added, tugging nervously at his belt. It was well-known that neither one of them were very good with making small talk, especially to strangers and even more so to strange women. They became stammering messes around anyone younger than a grandmother and older than a high schooler, to the point that if they discounted Imelda there was a good handful—as in, _maybe_ five—of women they could stand talking to.

It helped that Santa Cecelia didn't get many newcomers. The bus station, and the tiny restaurant next to it, was sufficient enough to hold tourists waiting for the next departure for the southern states. The families that lived there had been living there since the formation of the town itself. Anyone new was an oddity, something rare and usually talked about until the next big thing came along. This meant that as long as they stayed inside the town's borders, they were safe.

For the most part.

"Oops! Sorry, hang on!" Before either of them could speak, there was a flurry of movement from the back. "I didn't hear the bell ring, but I'll be right there!" A young voice, with a Norteño dialect they vaguely recognized. _Baja Californian_? They shared another glance, this time of mingled fear and confusion. What was some Mexicali woman doing in Santa Cecelia? How did she even get here?

Coco came back with a peach soda, offering them both a drink and shaking her head when neither one even acknowledged her. She was used to her tíos being in their own little world most of the time, and it didn't really bother her if they forgot she was around. She'd never known any different, and she was independent enough to do things on her own without always relying on an adult to be watching.

"Hi! Sorry," they were greeted again, and all three turned to see the tiny woman as she sailed through the doorway to take her place behind the counter.

"Hi!" Coco said back, beaming brightly as she clutched her soda in both hands. The twins were silent, too alarmed to do anything more than stare. Their worst fears were confirmed. She was new, she was a woman—a young woman, their age if not a little younger. But the worst of all, the part they couldn't look past no matter how many manners had been beaten into their skulls by a shoe: she was pretty.

To be fair, none of them knew exactly what to make of her. Santa Cecelia had a modern style when it came to clothing, but even they would have never thought to dress like _that_. In fact the woman's style took a step back in time rather than forwards; she looked as though she'd just came to them from an old Coca-Cola ad, hand painted on the side of some building.

Her dress fit the theme of her restaurant. It was a navy sailor's dress, the kind with white piping around the sleeves and a rounded collar. It fell below her knees, cut in the middle with a white ribbon and two rows of pretty gold buttons down the front of the blouse. The red necktie was not around her neck but instead on her head, tied in an offset knot that seemed fashionable enough, holding back dark pin curls; brushed flat from the top, they bounced around her ears and barely cleared her round chin.

Only her makeup seemed modern, red lips and winged eyeliner along with a translucent powder that did little to hide the freckles sprinkled on her nose. She smiled with white, even teeth, made whiter by the shock of red and without a single spot of lipstick marring their surface. Coco smiled at her with the childlike wonder of a celebrity, or an otherworldly fairy being. It was a rare day when she came across something so starkly different from her reality of blue jeans and business casual.

On the other hand, just looking at her made the twins feel every speck of dirt on their clothes. The streak of stubble on Oscar's chin, missed in his hurried morning shave, burned like fire. Felipe could point out every mussed hair on his head, his burnt palm tingling painfully. They felt like drowning, anxiety at the mere thought of speaking choking them into agonizing silence.

Thankfully for them, Coco didn't have that problem.

"I'm Coco," she began, picking up her chatter as easily as her papá talked up potential customers. " _Actually_ it's Socorro, but everyone calls me Coco because my parents do. Coco Rivera. And I'm here for ice cream, but this peach soda is really good too? I've never had it before, but I like it a lot. I think it's my new favorite soda, but I also like orange and grape but _not_ grapefruit, which you think would taste good but it actually tastes really, really gross. Anyway, all my friends have been here and says this is the best place to get ice cream, even better than the stuff they have in the city, which I've never had but Julio said he and his sister have, only this is better."

"Coco, huh?" While Coco talked, the woman had given her undivided attention, her dark eyes locked on Coco's bright ones. "I like that name, Coco. It's rolls off your tongue, doesn't it? _Co_ - _co_. Well, Ms. Co-co, my name is Maite." Her tongue flicked on the 'te' to give it a sharp, creased sound. "Maite Ramos Travieso, and I am pleased to meet you." She held out her hand and Coco took it, a little shocked at being treated like an adult herself. "I see you've been escorted by two gentlemen today."

"They're my tíos—" Coco paused, looking to see who was sitting where before pointing them out. "Oscar and Felipe. They're twins," she explained needlessly. Maite followed her finger.

"Oscar and Felipe," she repeated slowly; her eyes paused first on one face, then the other, as if the two weren't the same at all.

" _M-m-mucho g-gusto_ ," Oscar managed to say, while Felipe jerked his head in what was supposed to be a cordial nod.

"They're bikers!" Coco said blithely, taking another drink of her soda. "That's why they're dressed like that."

"You have a bike?" Maite perked up. "Did you bring it?"

"No. I'm not allowed on it," Coco answered for them. "My mamá doesn't want me to ride."

"What kind?" Oscar and Felipe looked at each other, a small argument passing between them that ended up with Felipe as the loser.

"H-H-Honda CB750" he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The 2007 model or the 750SC?" They both started, staring at her in amazement.

"2003 Nighthawk," Oscar blurted, shocked enough that he got the full sentence out without stuttering once. "Black."

"The first superbike." Maite pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Transverse four-cylinder, 218 kg base model."

"Not anymore." Felipe blushed when she looked directly at him, his gaze falling to the counter. "W-w-we changed some things."

"Customized?"

"It's g-got an entirely new brake system," Oscar explained, drawing patterns on the counter as he studied the bike in his head. "We've experimented with our own turbocharger, too."

"The speed's supposed to reach 125, but we've t-topped it at 180." Felipe ducked further. "That's without hard testing, though."

"W-we hope to hit 200 by next year, maybe…"

"My tíos are super smart! They know everything about mechanical junk!" Coco chirped proudly. "Do you have a motorbike too?"

"No, but when I was your age my papá used to take me to the races. He taught me all about motors and showed me how to check for people cheating the system, how to place a bet without getting targeted by the—" she stopped herself, seeing how closely Coco was paying attention, and cleared her throat. "But never mind! I haven't done any of that stuff in a long time. Besides, you're not here to talk _motores_ : you're here for ice cream. You said so yourself."

"Well—" Coco faltered, looking between her and her uncles.

"Let me see." Maite stood in front of Coco, bending down until they were eye-to-eye. "Ms. Coco, can you believe I've got a gift?"

"What kind of gift?"

"I know ice cream, and I know people. I can tell you _exactly_ what kind of ice cream you want, even before you know it yourself. That's how I made money, long before I decided to open my own shop."

"You can?!" Her eyes widened. "Do me, please do me!"

"Sit still, and I will." Coco froze, trembling on the seat as she tried to be as still as possible. Maite watched her for another minute before nodding to herself and walking briskly to the freezer.

"What kind—"

"Ah!" She held up a finger before putting it to her lips. Coco fell silent, spellbound. Maite turned between the cabinets and the fridge, grabbing jars and utensils faster than the three on the other side of the counter could keep up. She came back with a handmade waffle cone, presenting it with a flourish.

"For you, Ms. Coco: three scoops of chocolate in a cone—waffle, not sugar—sprinkled with cinnamon and semisweet coco-a. Sweet, but with a little bitterness and lots of warmth." Coco took the cone reverently in both hands, looking from it to the woman in amazement.

"Chocolate's my favorite flavor," she admitted in a tiny voice. "How did you know?"

"I know ice cream, and I know people," she repeated. "Go on, try it. I haven't been wrong yet." Coco took an experimental lick… and another, and another before chomping down on a full bite of cone and chocolate.

"It's super delicious!" she mumbled, one hand already on her temple in anticipation of brain freeze. Maite bounced in a quick curtsy, accepting the praise with grace before turning to the twins.

"And I'll do you next?" she offered. Her eyes swept over them, scrutinizing them the same way she'd done their niece. Oscar opened his mouth, but she held up another finger and he went still. "One bowl, two spoons. Right?" At a loss, they both nodded.

After she turned, Felipe put a hand on his brother's shoulder, rewarded with a puzzled shake of the head. They were used to reading each other's minds. For a moment, just one _little_ moment, it felt as if she had read theirs. Neither of them recalled that ever happening before; even Imelda, who knew them better than anyone else in the world, could only read the emotions on their faces.

"Here we go." Maite placed a large bowl before them. Coco leaned forward to see, her mouth covered in chocolate. "Two scoops of vanilla topped with chiles, cinnamon, apricot, and spiced mango sauce. That sauce is my pride; my personal recipe, I might add." She winked, ignoring how red they were at being singled out; she slid two spoons across the counter. "Dig in, and let me know what you think."

" _G-gracias_." They each took a side, trying to get as many toppings as possible on the spoon before taking a bite. Coco held her breath, absently licking melted ice cream off her thumb. They each chewed, swallowed, paused. Oscar looked at Felipe, who seemed to share his feelings. They'd thought it quaint that Coco was amazed at her cone, but… vanilla, complimented by spicy, savory, warm sauce and cinnamon that was almost sweet by comparison, and then an added kick from the tang of the apricots? It was… it was….

"Perfect." They each went for a second bite, splitting it evenly down the middle.

"Of course." Maite seemed modestly pleased, even with her confident words. "I've never considered apricots and mango together. That's a first, but you could say it's an… _experiment._ The sauce adds the burst of flavor, but underneath there's the calm vanilla to balance the eccentricity of the rest. A good, solid flavor. I like it," she announced, as though she'd been the one to taste-test it.

"So do we." They offered Coco a bite, but one lick of the mango sauce and her nose crinkled in distaste.

"Too sour!" she shivered on the stool, downing more of her soda to wash the taste away before attacking her cone. Maite pulled a napkin out of thin air, passing it to her with a smile before leaning against the counter and watching them comfortably.

"So, Ms. Co-co, what do you do when you're not searching for ice cream?"

"I go to school, or help Mamá and my tíos in the shop."

"You have a shop?" she asked the twins. Oscar cleared his throat twice before he could answer.

"O-Our older sister does."

"We're shoemakers!" Coco talked around bites of her treat, licking the chocolate as it raced down the cone towards the counter. "The whole family is! Well, sort of—Papá doesn't make shoes, but he helps Mamá in the shop. And Tío Nesto doesn't make shoes, but he's a family friend and not really my tío but I get to call him Tío because I like him. Not like Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe, who do make shoes and help with the deliveries. I'm still too small to help much but I pick up the leather and sort shoelaces, and I can even pack up deliveries before they go out as long as I let Mamá look them over. I'm going to make deliveries when I turn thirteen and I can shineshoes really, really well."

"I see!" Maite smiled. "So you're well on your way then, huh?"

"Yep!" Coco straightened on the stool, adopting her mother's stance. "Riveras are shoemakers, through and through."

"Wait… Rivera shoes!" Maite clapped her hands. "I've heard of you!"

"You have?"

"I'm sure of it. One of my old employers had a pair of boots that he said came from… uh… Doña Imelda, I think her name was? He told me, but this was about five years ago. That's why I remember, because those shoes still looked brand new and he'd had them for about three years by that point."

"That's my mamá!" Coco said proudly, chest puffing. "Mamá makes the best shoes in all of Mexico, _and_ her face is the company."

"She's the face of the company," Felipe corrected softly.

"He said those were the best boots he's ever owned. He told anyone who asked about them and gave them your website." She paused. "I really hate talking work while you're off the clock, but maybe you can help me. But if you want I can just bring them by another day, I don't want to bother you especially since we've only just met—"

"You h-have a shoe p-problem?" Oscar wiped his mouth.

"W-what happened?"

"Well, you see—I've got these high heels that I swear I've worn from San Diego to Guatemala and back. I mean, they're my _favorite_ shoes. But today I stepped down off the ladder and the heel snapped like _that_." She snapped her fingers with a scowl. "Would you mind taking a look at them? I really don't to throw them away, especially if I can have them fixed. I was going to wait until I went back north, but if there's a shoe shop here in town…."

"W-we don't mind."

"D-do you have them here?" Felipe pushed the bowl to the side, their spoons sticking up in the half-eaten ice cream. "O-one look and we can tell you if they're fixable."

"Sure! You don't mind?" They shook their heads. "Ay, you're lifesavers! Hang on just a sec, I stuck them by the back door." Maite all but ran to fetch them. As soon as she vanished into the back, the twins breathed a sigh of relief. They'd managed to get through an entire conversation with minimal panic: a win by their books.

"Are you okay?" Coco noticed their clear discomfort for the first time, her head tilting to the side like a puppy's. "You don't have to be shy; it's just Maite," she said, patting Oscar's knee. She spoke as though she'd known the woman all her life, and not just half an hour. How simple life would be if they had Coco's easygoing manner, and could talk to anyone at any time!

"Here, it's this one." Maite came back with a faded high heel in one hand, the broken heel in the other. Felipe took the shoe and Oscar the heel, their heads coming together as they studied the break.

"The leather's faded," Coco pointed out, using her own small arsenal of shoe knowledge. Maite nodded.

"They're old shoes. They used to belong to my mamá, before she passed. I took them when I left home." She looked on anxiously. "Can you fix it?"

"Sure." Just like with the motorbike, once they had something to focus on it was easier to talk. "It just needs some new glue, maybe even some more nails." Oscar said, tracing the relatively clean edge of the broken heel. Felipe frowned, turning the shoe over in his hands to peer inside.

"But… don't these pinch your feet?" he asked with real concern.

"Of course they do!" Maite replied with a laugh. "All heels hurt. It's just a thing." There was a tense silence as the trio stared at her. Coco sighed in pity, tongue digging for the last hints of chocolate inside the cone. Oscar shook his head, sympathetic and yet lamenting this poor woman's lack of knowledge. But it was Felipe who firmly placed the shoe back on the counter, a tight frown on his face.

"No, they don't." He gathered his courage before meeting her eyes, taking a deep breath. "Not if they're made the right way."

"What do you mean?"

"Look here." He pointed carefully to the indentions on the inside, an outline of her toes in the lining of the shoe. "When wearing heels, most women lean back to compensate for the balance. Their ankles brace them so that they can walk without having to stick their necks forwards."

"Heels shorten the arch," Oscar explained, tilting his hand to show the difference. "The higher you go, the shorter it is. Too high, and you'll put a strain on your ankles."

"Most women lean," Felipe repeated. "But you're not. Look at how your toes have dug into the lining here. They're trying to spread out when you put your weight on them, but there's nowhere for them to go. You're still putting all your pressure on the balls of your feet. You get blisters when you wear them for a long time, don't you?"

"Well… _sí_ , of course." Maite looked from Felipe to the shoe, brow furrowed. "On the—"

"On the sides, here." He glanced up for confirmation. "These shoes are too little in the toe and too wide everywhere else. They don't support your arch, so you keep putting pressure down when you walk to make up the difference. That's what put the strain on the heel in the first place, most likely."

"You can tell all that by looking at the shoes themselves?" Maite asked, clearly impressed. "Without seeing my feet at all?" Felipe held up the shoe, showing her the footprint inside.

"You've left your mark," he explained.

"It's just forensics," Oscar added. "It's like being able to tell what kind of bullet made a hole in a wall by the pattern it leaves behind."

"Or tire tracks at the scene of a crime."

"Or blood splatter."

"Or—"

"Woah, before we have a murder on our hands!" Maite chuckled. The sound surprisingly put them at ease, and the two relaxed for the first time since she'd walked in. "You guys know shoes like I know ice cream, I see."

"We've been doing it since we were sixteen."

"Nearly ten years, almost."

"About eight."

"Okay, so… what do I do?" Maite took the shoe back, looking down at it uncertainty as she fit the broken edges of the heel together. "How do I fix it?"

"We can fix the _heel_ ," Oscar clarified. "But Felipe's right. They're going to hurt your feet, no matter what. They're not a good fit."

"You need new shoes," Coco agreed, stuffing the last bit of cone into her mouth.

"Look here," Maite argued. "I've never found a pair of shoes that fit as well as these, and you're saying they don't fit well at all?"

"They _don't_ ," Felipe protested.

"What am I supposed to do? Try every shoe in Mexico until I find the ones that fit? I'm not Cinderella here."

"Of course not. You'll never get a good fit that way." Oscar made a face. "Manufactured shoes are… not one size fits all, I'm afraid."

"Listen." Felipe slid the bowl between him and Oscar again. "Come by the shop. We'll fix the heel, since they mean something to you. But I will _make_ you new shoes, ones that'll fit far better than those." He clicked his tongue adamantly. "They'll be the best heels you ever owned. No blisters, no breaking. You'll forget that you're even wearing them."

" _Really_?" Maite put her hands on her hips. "You're making a wager on that?"

"A single blister and they're free. I promise. In fact, I'll—" He paused, seeing Oscar and Coco staring wide-eyed at him. He slowly turned beet red, his words catching up to him. "I-I-I-I mean _we'll_ make you new ones—my sister—the family—" he stammered, trying to make up for his mistake. Oscar smirked, picking up his spoon without a word. Coco grinned, tugging on the ends of her braids and muffling her giggles. " _We_ ," he insisted quietly, his face on fire.

"I'm going to take you up on that, Felipe." Coco stopped laughing.

"You can tell them apart?!" She looked between them, then back to Maite. Most people, even after being told who was who, forgot and called one twin the other by mistake. Maite blinked at her, and then turned back to the two with a smile.

"Of course!" she replied, treating it as some grand in-joke between Coco and herself. "They're really not entirely alike at all, are they?" She winked again.

Oscar dropped his spoon.

* * *

"Felipe has a girlfriend! Felipe has a girlfriend!" Coco danced into the kitchen, grabbing her mother in a hug at the stove. "Felipe has a girlfriend," she said again, as if Imelda couldn't hear it from the moment she came in the front door.

"Oh he does?" she replied calmly, stirring the vegetables frying in the skillet. "Good for him. Was your ice cream worth the favor?"

"Oh, Mamá! It was the _best_ ice cream I ever had in my entire life! And Maite is super cool! She's really pretty and likes the ocean and she has this collection of seagulls and she _knows_ what people want to eat before they do, like a… like a magician!"

"Well, I hope you haven't ruined your appetite with your _magical_ ice cream. Supper's going to be ready soon."

"I'm still hungry. Is it stir-fry?"

"You guessed it."

"Yummy! We haven't had that in a long time!"

"Well, thank your papá. He's the one that asked for it." She gave the vegetables a shake, looking up as the twins entered the kitchen. "Supper's at six, if you're eating." Felipe went for the fridge, opening up the freezer and sticking his head inside. She looked at Oscar, who shrugged noncommittally. "Alright," Imelda sighed. "What happened?"

"I told you," Coco insisted. "Felipe has a girlfriend."

"I do not!" He denied, voice muffled by the freezer.

"You do too!" Coco clung to Imelda's skirt, tugging on it as she spoke. "He's going to make her high heels."

"Oh?" She looked again to Oscar. He wiggled his hand in a sorta-kinda gesture, making a weird face. Imelda seemed to understand it, though. "Seems like everything's settled, then."

"I meant _we_! I don't care who does it!" He groaned, trying to bury his entire head in the open freezer while cold air fell to the ground around him. Coco shivered, putting her mother as a living shield between the air and her body as she held her hands over the stove.

"Then why didn't you say that the first time?" Oscar goaded, reaching around him to open the fridge door and fish for a drink. Felipe slammed it on his arm, a small scuffle emerging between them that ended up with Oscar rubbing his hand in defeat.

"I don't know! I wasn't thinking!"

"She's really beautiful," Coco said. "Not as beautiful as you, Mamá, but close enough."

"Maite, huh?" Imelda turned off the eye, giving the vegetables a final flick. "I think Doña Lara was telling me about her the other day. She's from around the border, isn't she?"

"I don't know!" Felipe shut the freezer, though his face was still red—and had been since leaving the shop. "I didn't ask for her life story! And she's not my girlfriend." He motioned threateningly to Coco, who stuck out her tongue defiantly.

"Who?" Héctor came in the back door, Ernesto at his heels. "Who's got a girlfriend?"

"Felipe," the others answered immediately, Imelda joining them without hesitation.

"I don't!"

"It's about time," Ernesto said, elbowing Héctor in the ribs. "I always assumed they'd just split into quadruplets or something." Héctor clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to hide the fact that he was laughing. Imelda glared at them, sliding the vegetables into a bowl before checking on the rice.

"I think it's _good_ that you found someone you like," she declared, trying to be comforting. "You should bring her by the house sometime."

"She'll come by to get measured for her shoes," Coco said.

"I don't _like_ her!"

"Fine, fine! You don't like her then!" Imelda held up her hands. "We won't say another thing about her, Mr. Defensive. Now everyone wash up and get ready to _eat_ —even you, Héctor!"

* * *

Oscar sighed, head hitting the pillow as Felipe turned out the light. He held his hand out automatically, flinching at the foreign scratch of the gauze bandage wrapped tightly around Felipe's knuckles. Imelda had insisted he doctor it after seeing how red it still was after supper, and had marched him into the bathroom to wrap it up before, as she put it, 'you end up in the hospital with gangrene or something'.

" _Oye_."

"Hmm." Oscar paused, picking out individual sounds. Coco's light breaths, Héctor's grating snore, Imelda's softer sighs… good. They were all asleep, and Ernesto had left after supper when Imelda hinted at the men doing the dishes. He could talk to his brother without being overheard.

"I know you really _do_ like her." There was a put-upon sigh, but no answer. "The ice cream was good, though. Don't you think?" Still no answer. He slid down the mattress, worming his hand beneath the pillow as he kicked the sheets down to his knees. "We should go back sometime."

" _Goodnight_ , Oscar." He waited, but other than the sound of Felipe turning in the bed there was nothing more.

"Goodnight."

* * *

 **Afterword:** This was one of the longest chapters yet! Mostly because this is the stuff I really wanted to write about, while the last few chapters are just world-building and setting the stage, or singular ideas. The family interacting? Having fun and just being themselves in town? That's what I'm here for, baby.


	6. The Bad News

**Warning** : _While not graphic, there is brief mention of pet death, specifically euthanasia. It is mentioned in passing, and not detailed._

* * *

Imelda sat on the foot of the bed, half-dressed and mouth agape. Her loose hair tickled her shoulders, but she didn't have time to think about that right now. She was at a loss for words. As the shock turned to sympathy, she quickly slid her thumb over her phone's screen and turned off the speaker. The last thing she needed right now was to be overheard. She pressed the phone to her ear, the static from her husband's lousy reception crackling in the background.

"I… don't know what to say." It wasn't often that she was struck speechless, and each time was just as jarring as the last. "Is he… _okay_?"

" _Por Dios_ , 'Melda." Héctor laughed, but there was no joy in it. "It's as close as he'll ever come to knowing what it's like to lose a kid. He's _devastated_." She didn't respond to that. What could she say? He was right. Ernesto—despite his many, manyfaults—poured everything he had into his beloved chihuahuas. It was somewhat sweet… until he opened his mouth and started talking about them. It couldn't be said that she actually liked the man; she tolerated him, for Héctor and Coco's sakes.

Even so, she wouldn't have wished this on him.

Pepita had only been with them three years, and if anything ever happened to her Imelda would be inconsolable. She loved that ragtag little housecat as though it were a second child. Ernesto had owned that dog for _thirteen years_ ; he'd found it in an alley around the same time Imelda learned she was pregnant. She could still remember the trembling little puppy, too small to be separated from its mother, sitting perfectly in the palm of Ernesto's hand as though it had been crafted just for him.

" _Lo siento_." It seemed ridiculous; _I'm sorry for your loss._ That's what you said at funerals, not when you hear about the untimely death of an animal. But that's all she could think of to say. As deeply as Ernesto loved those shrill, barking beasts, he was most likely inconsolable himself.

"Yeah," Héctor muttered; she could see him in her mind's eye, running a hand through that messy mop of hair and tugging a handful as he leaned against the wall, cheeks puffed. "I told him to go take a shower, you know—have some time to himself, or something. I'm gonna stay here a while, make him eat some breakfast, I dunno."

She found herself nodding in time with his words. That was her Héctor: the man who always had a plan, even if the plan was to fly by the seat of his pants until he could think of something better. It always calmed her to know that _one_ of them had an idea about what to do. And in any case, she wasn't the best at dealing with the… emotionally compromised; that was his forte.

She wracked her brain for something to add, something that didn't sound cruel and impatient. She was so used to expecting antagonistic behavior from Ernesto— and giving it in return –that extending even a temporary olive branch seemed out of character. But he had experienced loss; a voice in the back of her head said to give him something, _anything_ , because it was the polite way to behave _._ It didn't help that the voice sounded very suspiciously like her mother.

"If—if he feels like coming to eat tonight, he's more than welcome…?" It sounded more like a question, posed to herself. What did it even mean? Ernesto invited himself over to eat all the time. She'd lost count of the times she'd gotten up to make breakfast, only to find him dragging himself to the table along with the rest of the family. She'd even left the spare dining chair at the table, since it made no sense to constantly be dragging it from the broom closet every time he showed his ugly face. _It's the thought that counts,_ she insisted firmly. _It's the invitation of it._

" _S_ _í_ , I'll let him know." Héctor's voice held a measure of relief, washing over her like a wave even through the phone. "I'll be home by suppertime, though probably not before." She felt a surge of affection for him; he was a good friend, a better friend then a man like de la Cruz deserved. She cradled the phone to her ear, thumb feeling a chink in the case the same way it glided over his cheekbone.

"That's fine. We'll manage," she assured him warmly. There was a tense pause. "Héctor?"

"Someone… someone's going to have to tell Coco," he said slowly. "She'll need to know eventually." He said it plainly, but there were many—almost too many—different layers to the words. A request: _would you?_ An assertion: _you should._ A plea: _I can't._

He hated being the bearer of bad news to their daughter, especially if there was a high possibility of tears. That was her job, the bad cop to his good cop, the grounded doctor to his hopeful nurse. He was Papá, singer of songs and protector against everything from nightmares to unexplained noises in the dark alley behind their house. It left her to be judge and jury, nursemaid, cook, and sometimes a walking ATM. Now, apparently, she was the phone call that no one wanted, the policeman on the doorstep.

No, that wasn't entirely correct. She was a protector, too. She was _his_ protector, a strong breaker against the waves that would otherwise drown him. He could be weak while she was there to hold him up, taking the brunt of the force. And it wasn't as though she got nothing for her efforts; he bolstered her with warm embraces, a kiss out of nowhere, a tired grin after a hard day. He kept her strong so that she _could_ stand her ground against the world that would, otherwise, tear them both to shreds.

"I'll tell her." She could almost see the weight lifting from his shoulders at the words.

" _Gracias, mi vida._ You're a lifesaver." She heard the muffled slam of a door, the static picking up with the extra noise and nearly drowning his voice. "That's 'Nesto. I'll text you later if anything happens, okay?"

"Sounds good." She bit her lip, already not looking forward to what had to come. "I love you _._ "

"Love you too. See you tonight." She let the click turn to a dial tone before hanging up, tossing the phone behind her on the bed and groaning under her breath. She'd do this for him because she loved him, and because they both knew in the back of their minds that Coco would take the news better from her. She'd be able to answer any questions she had, and keep a stoic expression in the face of the tears guaranteed to come. But she still didn't like it.

She dressed silently and efficiently, buttoning the white blouse and adjusting the puffed sleeves before tucking it into her belt. She checked her hose for runs and slid into her flats, tapping her toes lightly against the floor. She brushed her hair, twisting the braid up into her favorite style with practiced flicks of her wrist. One final swipe of lipstick to match the mascara on her lids, and she was ready. A strong woman stood reflected in the mirror, a walking force to be reckoned with, and in business casual at that.

She shook her wrist, twisting the loose band of her watch until she could see its face. She had approximately ten minutes before opening time to— _no._ She let her arm fall, taking a deep breath. One of her greatest faults was living by the clock; she was fastidious for a schedule, to the point that she annoyed _herself_. She couldn't put a time limit on her daughter's emotions. The twins were here, and it was only a half-day in the shop. They could watch things until she was able to join them.

She opened the bedroom door, peering out into the hallway. Her brothers were in the kitchen, talking animatedly about catalytic converters. They leaned against the stove, passing the milk jug between them and drinking directly from it while they debated. She cleared her throat pointedly and they jumped, startled and guilty. Their heads knocked together with a solid _whack_ , glasses slipping sideways on Felipe's nose while Oscar choked mid-drink, hand clapped over his mouth.

"Imelda!"

"We—"

"—can explain!"

"Not now," she hissed, snapping to get their attention before gesturing for them to come to the door. Felipe all but threw the milk back into the fridge, Oscar wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as they crept down the hall. Despite being in their mid-twenties, taller than Héctor and with facial hair to boot, it was still striking to see how boyish they could look when caught red-handed.

"What?" they asked together, standing well out of striking range. She motioned for them to come closer, a finger over her lips. They shared another glance, eyebrows arching to meet the red marks on their foreheads.

"Come here… it's important." Her voice dropped, and they had no choice but to come closer and listen. "I have to talk to Coco privately, and I don't know how long we're going to be. I need the two of you to set up without me."

"What's wrong?"

"Did something happen?" She nodded.

"One of the dogs had to be put to sleep this morning." Identical grimaces twisted their mouths.

"Oh."

"Ugh. That's sad."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but—"

" _S_ _í_ ," Oscar nodded. "Poor Ernesto."

"Poor _Coco_." Felipe winced. Imelda glanced at her watch again, unable to stop the habitual gesture.

"It's time. Go and open up. I'll be there soonish."

"Right." They gave her a mock salute. " _Buena suerte_."

"And wipe the milk off your face," she called after them, shaking her head. Steeling her nerves, she turned to the other side of the hall, where the bedrooms were. "Coco? Coco!"

"Um… coming, Mamá!" There was a mad scramble; as the door opened Pepita shot from the room like a bullet, her tail puffed. Imelda stared after the gray streak as it skittered in place on the kitchen floor before finding purchase. "I wasn't doing anything, I swear!" Coco appeared in the doorway, dropping something out of sight before lacing her fingers against her stomach. Imelda nearly called her on her obvious lie, but something in the back of her mind told her to let it go. Now was the time to show mercy.

"Coco, come here. I want to talk to you." She motioned for the child to join her in the bedroom. Coco hesitated, suspicious at the change of normal pace. "Come on." Imelda waved to her again, and Coco obeyed slowly. She glanced up as she passed, turning sideways in the threshold before standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Imelda shut the door behind her, going back to the foot of the bed and sitting down before patting the place next to her.

"Mamá?" Still she hung back, sensing that something wasn't quite right.

"Come here, sit by me." Coco was again obedient, climbing onto the high bed before turning to sit at her side. Her legs dangled, crossed at the ankles and hands wringing in her lap.

"Did I… do something?" she asked, voice full of confused apprehension. It was clear that she was trying to think of a forgotten misdeed, some tiny bit of mischief bad enough to land her in her current position.

"No, no. You're not in trouble. I just want to talk to you a minute." She let out a low breath, tongue working in her cheek as she tried to put her thoughts into words. "Coco, you know Mani."

"Yeah?"

"This morning, Mani had to go to the vet. Your Tío Ernesto noticed that she wasn't feeling well. And Dr. Valdez said— well, he said that Mani had a tumor in her stomach. Cancer." It was hard, the words stumbling from her mouth clunkily. She forced herself to meet Coco's intent, solemn gaze as she spoke. "And he also said that… that she wasn't going to be getting any better."

"Is Dr. Valdez going to take the tumor out of her stomach?"

"I—no. I'm sure if he could've operated, he would have. But Mani was such an old dog, and she would have been in a lot of pain. So, because she was so sick, Tío Ernesto decided that the best thing to do for Mani was to let Dr. Valdez put her to sleep. That way, she wouldn't have to hurt."

"To sleep." Coco looked down at her lap, picking at her nails. "Like… put down."

" _Sí_. They put her down this morning."

"Oh." For a moment, everything was quiet. Imelda felt herself on the edge of a precipice, looking down a sheer drop. She said nothing, letting Coco take the time she needed to process the information. Without a sound, two teardrops fell to darken the purple cotton of her sundress. Her thin shoulders jerked once, an involuntary sniffle shaking her frame. "Oh," she said again, breaking on a high note.

" _Mija_." Imelda might not have been the best comforter, but she at least knew how to hold her own child. She drew her close, stroking the back of her head as she leaned down to breathe in the floral chemicals of her shampoo. Coco buried her face in the crook of her neck, hands fisting and wrinkling her blouse as she began to sob in earnest. Imelda said nothing, her body curving protectively around her daughter the same way it had the day she was born; it was as if her muscles could remember those first feeble wails, the tiny, perfect fists clenched as she railed against the world.

 _Born a fighter_ , the doctor had joked.

By the time Coco had cried herself out, Imelda's blouse was covered in an unappealing mixture of tears and mucus, wrinkled beyond measure and soaked clean through in places. She ignored it for the moment, finding one of Héctor's rarely used handkerchiefs for the hiccupping girl. She went to the bathroom and came back with a cold cloth, wiping the red cheeks and bloodshot eyes with a kind, if not gentle, efficacy.

"—hurt?"

"What?" She'd been so focused on cleaning her up that she hadn't realized Coco was talking. Coco sniffed, wiped her nose on the handkerchief, and repeated her question.

"I said, did it hurt?" Her eyes were watery and imploring, full of unwavering trust. "It didn't hurt her, did it?"

"No. She didn't even know it was happening."

"Oh. That's… good." She closed her eyes as Imelda scrubbed at the corners. "Is Tío Nesto going to be okay?"

"Well, he's— he's very sad. He'll be sad for a while."

"Me too."

"Papá is with him right now. He'll be alright," she assured her. "And you will, too. We have to remember Mani as she was in life."

"I'll always remember when she stole Tío Felipe's pizza out of his hand." The ghost of a smile twitched at her lips. "And how she used to bark until she was hoarse."

"She was a good… _loud_ … dog, and she had a happy life. That's what matters."

* * *

The _zapatería_ on a weekday was one of Coco's favorite places to be.

There was nothing better than coming home from school and relaxing in the workshop, listening to the cadence of her family. They had their own rhythms, joining together like different instruments to create a symphony of work, work, work.

She especially loved sitting between her twin uncles. Sewing, hammering, cutting: no matter what they did, they did it with a seamless unison. No matter how often she turned from one to another, there wasn't a single skip in the rise of their arms as they pulled the stiff thread, or the singing of their hammers as they carefully worked with soles. They didn't even have to look at each other to keep the beat, and they could talk easily to her without getting distracted from their job.

Today they were hammering, her favorite thing to watch. It gave Mamá a headache sometimes, but no matter how loud they could be she never felt any ringing in her ears afterwards. Papá was sitting in his chair beneath the display shelves, his laptop balanced on his legs. He was sending some important emails to the people that bought his songs, so he didn't have time to play for them this afternoon. Mamá was tallying up her books, the buttons on her fancy calculator click-clacking at top speed while the paper churned from the spool to fall down the back of the counter, tiny numbers written in neat lines.

Coco lay her head on the workbench, closing her eyes and listening to the Rivera song. _Tap-tap-tap-tap_ :the twin's hammers kept time with a rapid tempo. _Click-clack, click-clack, tic-tic-tic,_ Papá's keyboard warbled as he backspaced a sentence. _Whir-whir-clickity-clackity-smack_ , Mamá's fingers sang as they flickered over the numbers. _Tippy-tappy-tippy-tap_ , the soles of her shoes drummed as her own special rhythm joined theirs in harmony.

There was one thing missing, though. She opened her eyes, muffling her sigh against her forearms as she stared at the empty chair beside Papá. Tío Nesto should have been here, the _snick-click_ of a new beer can's lid, a bass-y _lump-thump_ of his chair legs lifting and hitting the floor. He had his own beat, too; without it, their sound wasn't complete.

It had been two weeks since anyone had seen him. Coco was used to going spaces of time without her not-blood-uncle, whenever he was off on a tour or had something to take care of in another city. But during those times he was never really _gone_ ; he was always calling Papá or sending funny postcards from the countries he visited. And he always brought something back for her, though Mamá called it a bribe rather than a souvenir.

But this time it was different, and weirder. He didn't call, he didn't text, he certainly didn't send a letter or a postcard. He was in the city, and yet she'd not seen him at all. Coco wasn't even sure where he lived, though she knew it was a flat with at least three stories. Papá went to check on him every few days, but he wouldn't let her go with him. He wouldn't let her call him on the phone either, or Skype, or FaceTime, or even _text_.

"Be patient," he said whenever she asked, smiling down at her. Coco wasn't a little kid anymore. She was twelve; she knew what that meant. _Don't bother your Tío Nesto,_ that smile said. It was almost as if no one else was worried about him, which couldn't be right. Why was she the only one? It made her feel gross and icky inside, like she was pushing and pushing against a wall that just wouldn't budge no matter how much she needed it to. The more she thought about it, the worse she felt.

It built up and built up until—

"Papá!" Mamá looked up sharply, but Papá only help up a finger for her to wait. He spelled a word to himself, mouth moving quietly as he looked down his nose at the screen. When he was done, he looked up at her. She slid from her seat, going to stand in front of him. She stood tall the way Mamá did, crossing her arms with a stern frown.

" _When_ is Tío Nesto coming back?" If he wouldn't let her go to him, she just had to find out when he'd come back to them. If she had a date, something that Mamá could circle on the family calendar, then it would be easier for her to be the good, patient little girl they wanted her to be. Papá glanced at Mamá.

"Oh, you know." He shrugged, looking back at his laptop. "When he's ready." Coco seethed, face scrunching as she was promptly dismissed. That wasn't an answer at all! That was just one of those dumb things adults said to make kids stop asking questions!

"Maybe you should go check on him again." Papá wasn't typing, but he didn't look up at her, either. He seemed to be thinking about what to say. She stood there, refusing to move until he answered. She wasn't a _baby_. She could handle adult things. If this was some adult thing, she had as much as right to know as anyone else in the room.

"He's fine," Papá finally replied, his voice slow and musing.

"Coco, let your papá work." Mamá made a shooing motion with her hand, sending her back in the direction of the table. She adjusted her reading glasses, making a face at her that said _no backtalk._ Coco turned to obey, her feet already dragging her back to the stool. Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe had stopped hammering, staring at her curiously through their big, round lenses. Everyone had stopped, the rhythm interrupted by her questions.

If it started again, she'd never learn anything.

"Can't we—" Knowing full well that she was being disobedient, she turned on her heel and tried to address her father as a fellow adult. "Papá, can't we at least ask his family to go check on him?" Maybe it was one of those things where you weren't supposed to interfere unless you were related. Tío Ernesto and Papá called each other _hermano_ , but they weren't really brothers. They were just very good friends. Perhaps she was looking in the wrong place for help. If she could find Tío Nesto's relations, she might stand a chance of getting a good look at him.

Papá and Mamá shared another, longer look. Mamá didn't even scold her for her naughtiness. She turned to see Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe frowning at her; it wasn't in an angry way, though. It was as though her question was confusing to them.

"Uh, Coco?" Tío Felipe scratched the sharp edge of the hammer against his cheek, and it left a faint red mark. "Ernesto doesn't _have_ any family."

That just… didn't make sense. Everyonehad family. It was impossible not to; people didn't just fall out of the sky ready-made. They had to have someone to raise them and take care of them and—

"You're lying." The twins had to be playing one of their tricks on her, trying to see how gullible she was. But Papá was shaking his head.

"They're right, _mija_."

"B-But… he's _got_ to. He's got a mamá, right?" She looked to Mamá, who shook her head as well. "A papá?"

"No."

"Tíos? Tías? Primos? _Abuelos_? _**Hermanos**_?!" They all just kept shaking their heads, like bobble headed dolls dancing to unheard music. She stood in the center of it all, the unsettled eye of the storm. "But _how_?"

"Well, you know." Papá looked uncomfortable now. "There are just some people in the world who don't have any family." She opened her mouth to argue, to state her point that someone couldn't have come from nothing, and then she remembered something. Last fall, when they were setting up the _ofrenda_ with Papá Eli's photo, and her other grandparents, the ones that had died before she was ever born….

 _Your Tío Nesto, uh—he's not a big fan of Día de Muertos. He's got his own traditions, I guess._

Papá had said that as they worked together on the _cempasúchil_ path, when she asked why Tío Nesto never celebrated with them. She'd always assumed Papá had meant he liked to have privacy on the holiday, like their neighbors. That he wanted to spend the holiday at home, putting offerings on his own family's _ofrenda_. But like a bucket of cold water, the truth doused her to the core: he didn't have an _ofrenda_.

He didn't have anyone.

"That's not true!" It took her a moment to realize she'd spoken aloud, her hands clenched in fists at her side. "He's my _tío_. _We're_ his family." The moment she said it aloud, she knew it was the truth. He belonged with them, a part of their music. He had a place at the table, a chair in the workshop, a cushion on the sofa. A place on her _ofrenda_ too, when the time came (hopefully in the far, far future) for him to pass on to the next world.

"I—well—" Papá's brows wrinkled and he scratched his head. "I mean, you're not wrong. _Sí_ , he's family." Mamá frowned, but didn't say anything.

"He needs to be here," she said firmly, putting her foot down. If he came back, everything would be better. Even if he was still sad—she was too, when she had time to stop and think about Mani—your family made you feel better. She'd work super, super hard to make him happy again. They could sit in the living room and watch prize fighting while Mamá was busy in the shop, and she'd even let him have her lo mein without complaining. "He needs to… to come home."

"Coco, he's got a home. He's there right now," Mamá pointed out.

"I know but…" She wished that she could put her feelings into words that her parents could understand. She faltered, trying to make sense of what she meant and still feeling, somehow, that she came up short. "This is his home, too."

* * *

Days passed, and it became easier just to pretend that Tío Nesto was just on one of his sabbaticals. She could almost forget that he wasn't around, pushing his absence to the back of her mind only to be reminded when their family's rhythm fell short of its mark.

And then… he was back.

She was ready for school, and wandered into the living room to watch cartoons while waiting on Mamá to finish breakfast. There he was, flipping through channels with his feet propped on the coffee table. It was like he'd never left. She stared at him from the threshold, looking for some sign that he wasn't the same, that he'd really been gone. It had almost been _two months_ , after all! But he was just… himself: showered, shaved, dressed in his usual pressed pants and some weird designer shirt. Maybe his expression was a little duller, more tired around the edges of his mouth. But other than that—nothing.

"You're back!" Her voice squeaked on a high note, full of disbelief. His head jerked from the TV, jumping in place. He hadn't noticed her come in, then. She stared at him, wide-eyed, waiting for him to talk.

"… And?"

"It really _is_ you!" She dropped her bookbag and flung herself onto the sofa. A half-formed theory about aliens or doppelgangers had been forming in the back of her mind, but there was only one man in Santa Cecelia who talked the way he did. It _had_ to be him. "Tío!"

"He—get off!" He shoved her back easily with one hand, the same way he always did. She wrapped her arms around his, hugging the rock-hard muscles beneath his sleeve. "Did you not hear me?! Get off!"

"Hang on." She jumped away from him, backing out of the room. "Don't go anywhere." He scoffed, turning back to the TV as she ran through the kitchen. She nearly plowed right into Tío Oscar as he came out of the bathroom, sidestepping his legs at the last minute.

"Where's the fire?" he asked, squinting down at her without his glasses.

"Tío Nesto's back!" she called over her shoulder gleefully.

"Oh." She didn't wait for any further reply, running into her bedroom and throwing open her drawers. She still had it… somewhere…. _Aha_!

She pulled the piece of paper from the bottom of her nightstand, trinkets clattering to the ground around her feet. Pepita's paw came from beneath the bed, batting at one of her marbles; she left it for her, gathering up the rest of her treasures and throwing them back into the drawer before slamming it shut with her foot.

It was supposed to have been a get well soon card. Realizing that he wasn't sick, she'd been at a loss for what to write and instead had just saved it as a nice picture. She'd meant to give it to him when he came back; of course, he was supposed to have come back long before now. What was it that Papá said? Better late than never? Or something like that….

She ran back down the hall, sliding past her mother in the kitchen.

"Coco, the van's in the back; I'm going to a conference so I'm dropping you off on the way." Mamá was digging in her purse for her keys, talking around the checkbook in her mouth and not even looking at her.

"Be right there!" She bounced into the living room, where to his credit Tío Nesto was right where she'd left him. "Here! It's for you!" She held the paper face down, grinning at him. He took it cautiously, turning it over. He stared for a long time at the card, nostrils flared and mouth working.

"What is this?" he eventually asked.

"Coco?"

"One second!" She glanced quickly at the archway to the kitchen. "It's for you," she repeated. "I drew it myself."

"I _get_ that. But what _is_ it?"

"It's… a drawing!" She shrugged, giggling.

" _Coco_!"

"I gotta go." She scooped up her bag from the floor. "See you after school."

"Hng." She couldn't help but smile giddily. _Same old Tío_ _Nesto._ Already, her prediction had come true. Things were better, and could only be going up from there. She waved one last time, turning on her heel and hurrying before her mother could call a third time.

She was in too big of a rush, and so didn't see the man frown down at the picture in his hands. It was crudely drawn, hardly artwork. The lines on her pigtails were thick enough to nearly break through the printer paper, and his head was about five sizes too big. She'd even drawn the damn gray streaks starting to show near his ears. The three dogs around them—he assumed they were dogs—had wide, gaping eyes and circular, grotesque bodies. It was a travesty, despite how flat the smiles of the two people in the picture were.

He made a move to crumple it, stopping only when the first crease appeared in the paper. He smoothed it slowly, nose crinkling, and then sighed. Folding it quickly, he opened his wallet and slid the paper inside. Pocketing the wallet, he crossed his arms and settled in for a morning nap.

* * *

 **Afterword:** _Gotta get that found family trope in there somewhere…._


End file.
